


magnolia

by nuest95s



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Anxiety, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Lee Jeno is Whipped, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Underage Drinking, communication issues x1000, the enemies part is a bit loose so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2019-05-14 06:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 121,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14764274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nuest95s/pseuds/nuest95s
Summary: When Jeno had read Romeo and Juliet in ninth grade, he’d written it off as ‘the dumbest fucking love story ever written’. Unfortunately, that hadn’t met the word count and he’d gotten the first F of his educational career. Love at first sight was stupid—more importantly, it didn’t even exist. You couldn’t just meet someone’s eyes over the sardine cans at the grocery and see all your shared future memories reflected back at you. At best, you’d see the canned fruit stacked up behind you.Right now, though, he thought maybe he’d had it all wrong.(or an hs au full of completely mutual unrequited crushes. have fun)





	1. maybe all the angels had to fly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aka the noren au i was never supposed to get to but did. hooray for that!!! btw ive never taken art as a class in hs but i have *taken it* so if some of the logistics abt projects r weird theres that... also the fic is set to block schedule (an optional a period each day (50 mins), 3 classes a day, 100 mins each) bc that's just what i'm most comfortable w!! [here's](https://open.spotify.com/user/varsh-bear/playlist/29FdhB92NqxX1chDCQIAXf?si=Q3ZhXW0DTD-vpenF0V73zw) a playlist for this chapter and i hope u all like it !!! chapter title from better by mallrat and work title from magnolia by gang of youths
> 
> note: i probably wouldn't have gotten here w/o kaya so thank u for motivating me to finish it <3 ilysm

            The school grounds smelled like burning licorice and suffering students. If he strained his nose just so, Jeno could make out a hint of pot.

            In a couple words, it was hell.

            “Senior year, huh?” Mark said, clapping a hand on his back. Jeno wasn’t sure why he was here, considering he’d graduated three months ago.

            “Yep,” Donghyuck said dreamily. Mark’s other hand was in his. His gaze was almost frighteningly gooey—Jeno thought to put out a hand to snap him back to reality, but that wouldn’t go over well.

            “Where’s Yukhei?” Jeno cut in, just for the sake of it. He stared at his sandwich, if it could even be called that, for three minutes straight. It was some contraption of Wonder bread and Airheads Xtremes. His stomach rumbled pitifully.

            “Doing jock things with his jock friends,” Donghyuck said bitterly. He stabbed at plain cheese. “What do you have next?”

            Jeno smirked. “Free period.”

            After three years of barely scraping by, his admittedly lacking effort had led to _something._ Mark’s eyes widened. “Dude.”

            “I know,” he said smugly. In the distance, there was a faint splat. The group stiffened, but didn’t turn around to investigate. That was admin’s job.

            Donghyuck swallowed his cheese. “You, Lee Jeno, are an asshole.”

            He blinked. “What?”

            “How could you _bear_ to take a free period without asking me?” Donghyuck continued.

            Jeno coughed a dry laugh, hiding the rest of his sandwich in the plastic handles of his bag. He was sure later, when he was on the wrong side of stoned, the Diabetes Special Spectacular would look more appealing. “You think so lowly of me. I did ask you. I asked Brain!Donghyuck.”

            There was a chorus of groans. Donghyuck chewed spitefully. “Brain!Donghyuck isn’t real.”

            “Do you want to know what he said?”

            “…Yes.”

            “’Oh, Jeno,’” Jeno started, mimicking Donghyuck. “’You can’t take a free period—you can’t, you literally can’t. Take a class, any class, take fucking home econ. Out of solidarity, you know? Anyway, you can’t.’”

            Donghyuck opened his mouth to say something, but Jeno put up a finger and continued. “’And if you do, then I’ll just find someone to hack into the system and change it. Your choice.’”

            Donghyuck examined his cuticles carefully before answering. Mark was trying very hard to hold back laughter—his cheeks were pinking, and his eyes seemed almost maniacally wide. Finally, the former said, “Brain!Donghyuck still isn’t real.”

            Then he stuffed another round of cheese in his mouth and stalked out of the quad. Jeno looked after him, then at Mark. “Should I go—”

            “Nah,” he said, patting Jeno’s hand with the manner of a daycare supervisor. “I’ll do it. Get something to eat during free period!”

            Jeno made a noncommittal sound and picked at the translucent plastic. Mark gave a long suffering sigh. “Jeno—”

            “I promise,” he replied, pushing away him away towards the bathroom. “Now go, shoo, I can practically hear the steam still coming out of Hyuck’s ears.”

            Mark shot him a smile and jogged off in the direction of his boyfriend. He was almost across the quad by the time the bell rang. Jeno frowned down at his plastic bag before stuffing it in his backpack. He glanced up at the students milling around, allowed himself a small smile at the thought of going home and sleeping for fifteen hours straight.

            Jeno was halfway out the door when the shout came, his signature fresh on the sign out sheet beside the administration desk. He was pretty sure no one ever checked it, but at least he had a real reason this time.

            “Lee Jeno!” It came again, more urgent. Jeno turned so his back was against the door, and flicked up his eyes to meet the vaguely guilty eyes of his counselor.

            Well, this was just fucking fantastic.

            “That’s me,” he said, twisting one finger around the earbuds hanging out of his ear. His heart was doing some freeform dance in his chest, and his foot edged slowly towards the door—towards _freedom._ There was something awfully ominous about the entire situation, and he kind of didn’t want to know how it all ended.

            His counselor, a nice guy, really, if a bit overworked, was rubbing the bridge of his nose. His nametag read Moon Tae Il in bold black letters and was drooping off his sweater vest sadly. Jeno thought to reach out and fix it, then stopped himself. Mr. Moon let out a quiet sigh, and then said, “Can we talk in my office?”

            Jeno didn’t think they could, actually. He hadn’t known six words could possibly be that terrible, but here he was, trembling in fear. Or maybe that was just the seven Monster drinks he’d had in fourth period. Either way. But his hand dropped from the door, and he lifted his shoulders in a resigned shrug. “Yeah, sure.”

            Lee Jeno was a lot of things, but he was not an asshole. If worst came to worst, he could offer him his airhead sandwich. He looked like he needed the energy. So he followed him down the dingy hallway, which looked more depressing today, for some reason. The faded wallpaper and vomit colored carpet seemed to be taunting him. He turned up the volume on his music, while he still could.

            Mr. Moon had covered his office with illustrated puns that doubled as motivational quotes. When he took a seat at his desk and switched on his computer, a square of paper peeked out from behind his head, with a doughnut and the words ‘donut give up’ in swirly font. Jeno’s stomach rumbled again.

            He looked up from his computer, and his eyebrows creased. “Are you hungry?”

            What was he supposed to say, that he had chronic indigestion? “I mean, I suppose that depends on the definition of hunger, like—sort of, but not really—”

            He put up a hand to stop Jeno and opened one of his drawers. After a few seconds, he pulled out a Snickers bar and handed it to him. “Here.”

            Jeno blinked at the chocolate bar, then at his counselor, then back at the bar. The other waggled the bar, gesturing for him to take it, and so he did, tentatively peeling back the crinkling wrapper. “So,” he said around a bite. “What’s up, Mr. Moon?”

            He winced. “Just call me Taeil. And, um.”

            Jeno didn’t think he’d ever heard an adult say ‘um’, and it wasn’t doing amazing things for his anxiety. He wondered how shitty of a move it would be to just get up and walk off campus right now. He squared his shoulders. “Um?”

            Without saying another word, Mr. Moon shifted the monitor of his computer so that Jeno could see it. It was a bunch of jargon he couldn’t wrap his head around, missing credits, and gaps in requirements, and lack of qualifications for A-G schools, and ‘unable to graduate’, and—

            “Unable to graduate?” he blurted out, louder than he’d meant to say it. The tips of his ears burned red with embarrassment, but the rest of him was more concerned with the fact that he wasn’t going to fucking _graduate._

            “Yes, that’s why I was trying to get ahold of you and, um, yeah.” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “For some reason the system had glitched, and it had your arts requirement down as fulfilled, but I looked into it over the summer, and you’ve never taken a course that fulfills it. Or, I mean. Passed one.”

            “Low blow, Mr. Moon,” Jeno mumbled. It wasn’t his fault he was fundamentally unable to play the trombone.

            “At any rate,” he said in the world-weary voice of the sleep deprived, taking another sip from his worn thermos, “You need to fulfill that before you graduate, otherwise you won’t. And since it’s already into the school year, I’m sorry, but your options are slightly limited.”

            Jeno felt like this could’ve been cosmic karma, if he’d ever done anything to deserve this. His report card wasn’t a huge mess of red ink and notes about disruptive behavior, usually, and he thought of himself as a pretty upstanding citizen. His brows knit. Was this the universe getting back at him for not helping that old lady across the street yesterday?

            “Jeno?” Mr. Moon repeated, with the tone of someone who’d been at it multiple times already. “Are you listening?”

            “Of course,” he said automatically. “What were we talking about?”

            “Well, I was giving you your choices for the year, since your free period isn’t possible right now,” he continued drily, tapping at his computer. “All the theater classes are overflowing, even the advanced ones, so that’s not an option. Studio art and ceramics are also full, and I’m guessing you don’t want to try your hand at Symphonic Band again?” At Jeno’s expression, he laughed and added, “The art classes are full at the basic levels too, Art 1 and Art 2, but Art 3 is open. It’s a bit advanced, but I’m sure the teacher would understand the situation, he’s usually fairly reasonable.”

            Mr Moon’s words were drifting in through one ear and out through the other. Jeno wanted to pay attention, he really did, but every time he put conscious effort into registering what he was saying, his heart started breakdancing. At this point, it was more of a nuisance than anything else, but still.

            “Art 3?” he repeated. Even the words didn’t fit right in his mouth. The last time he’d done ‘art’, it’d been finger painting in fourth grade arts and crafts time. He’d covered the entire page in red paint and called it ‘fireball’. The next week, his parents had set up a meeting with a family friend with a bachelor’s degree in child psychology.

            “It’s pretty self paced, and I’m sure Mr. Seo’ll help you get the hang of things.” He looked up from his computer and glanced at Jeno. His gaze was equal parts severe and encouraging. “Listen, Jeno, I know it sounds overwhelming, and I know you were looking forward to that free period—”

            “I really was,” he muttered under his breath, and Mr. Moon huffed a laugh.

            “ _But_ I have a lot of faith in your ability to make this work. Trust me on this.”

            Jeno thought that his faith was fairly unfounded, considering the most versatile thing he’d done in the past three years was switch partners for a project a week before it was due. But he met the other’s unwavering gaze and realized that even if he threw a fit in the admin office, and like, vandalized Mr Moon’s motivational quotes with Mark’s cheap fucking spray paint, it’d get him nowhere. Nowhere except, of course, this office. One year from now.

            He gazed mournfully at the space on his schedule where his free period currently sat, then turned back to Mr Moon. “Yeah, sure, sign me up for Art 3. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

            He grinned and typed something furiously on his computer. “Now that’s the spirit.”

            Jeno didn’t have the heart to tell him the spirit was just badly delivered sarcasm.

            Five minutes later, a warm new schedule was secure in his hand, where it was slowly being crumpled to death. Mr. Moon had shooed him out quickly, saying he was already late to the first day, and he couldn’t afford that in Art 3. The little voice in the back of his head that enjoyed such sophisticated hobbies as procrastinating and taking naps to avoid confrontation was having a great old time detailing exactly why this was going to be the worst experience of his life.

            Put simply, he was feeling peachy.

            The hallways were empty by the time he got there, and a quick glance at his phone told him he’d missed half of class. He sighed and put his phone away, hefting the clump of books and his schedule in his hands. The door to the classroom that would almost certainly become his private little hell this year was kind of shut, crooked slightly open with a doorstop. From here, he could hear the chatter of students and above it all, a carrying voice. A sign on the door read ‘Art 3’ in beautiful interlocking script, and he felt suddenly, horribly unready for it all.

 _Be brave, Jeno,_ he told himself.

            He braced himself and opened the door, or tried to. A simultaneous pressure came from the inside, and after half a moment of confusion, it swung open and into Jeno’s face.

 _“Fuck,”_ he said, quietly and forcefully, before his hands flew up to clutch his split lip. His face felt hot and sticky, and when he looked up to meet the eyes of the offender, the blush only grew.

            When Jeno had read Romeo and Juliet in ninth grade, he’d written it off as ‘the dumbest fucking love story ever written’. Unfortunately, that hadn’t met the word count and he’d gotten the first F of his educational career. Love at first sight was stupid—more importantly, it didn’t even exist. You couldn’t just meet someone’s eyes over the sardine cans at the grocery and see all your shared future memories reflected back at you. At best, you’d see the canned fruit stacked up behind you.

            Right now, though, he thought maybe he’d had it all wrong.

            “Are you all right?” the angel asked, bending down to pick up his stuff. Inside, the chatter continued, unrelenting, and Jeno wondered what he’d have to do to just—stop everything for half a second.

            Jeno mumbled something unintelligible around his hands, praying that the red in his face would subside. It didn’t. The boy, knelt around his books and papers, looked up and spoke again, mouth quirked to the side in amusement. “I asked if you were alright. Does it hurt too much to speak?”

            “No,” he managed, and brought his hands away from his face. They were red. He swore again, and regretted it immediately after.

            The boy just shook his head, and it would’ve been patronizing if not for the faint hint of a smile on his face. He pulled himself to his feet, and his knees almost buckled under the weight of all Jeno’s books. Jeno reached out a hand to help him, arms laced through the other’s clumsily. He knew his face was the color of a ripe tomato, but at this point he might as well pass it off as a skin condition. When he met his eyes again—who even had eyes that brown, anyway?—he was blinking rapidly, and trying not to laugh. “You’re going to get blood on your books, dude.”

            Jeno flushed and looked back down. “Well, then the library’s just going to have to deal with the knowledge that a vampire’s in the student body.”

            “Probably not the worst thing they’ve ever had to deal with,” the boy agreed, before pulling his arms from Jeno’s. Where they’d touched, red streaked his forearms. He inclined his head towards the classroom. “I’ll put these in there. Are you late to class?”

            “Yeah, um,” Jeno coughed. “I just got transferred here.”

            He made a noise of sympathy, and shifted the load. “I’ll talk to Seo about it. You should get your lip checked out, it looks nasty. Sorry, by the way.”

            Jeno shook his head too quickly. “It’s fine, like really, don’t worry about it. And uh, thanks for like—” he broke off to gesture wildly at the scene.

            The angel shook his head and turned back towards the room. “No problem.”

            The door shut behind him and Jeno startled at the noise. It was like a switch had been turned on; his face burned with pain, and he let out a helpless sound of self pity as the entire situation dawned on him.

            Irene made a noise of sympathy when he walked in, and he caught a sliver of him in the bedside mirror and shuddered. His lip had swell up, and hair was wet against his forehead. The blood on his hands had dried, for the most part, but it wasn’t very heartening to realize you looked like you were just involved in a homicide.

            “Faceplanted again?” she asked, patting the bed.

            He bit back a grin. God, he wished. “Got a door opened in my face.”

            Irene clucked and rifled through some drawers for supplies. She set at cleaning up his face without speaking. At Jeno’s winces, she simply shook her head. “Was he cute, at least?”

            Jeno said nothing, but his lips curved in a smile, eyes fluttering closed. Quietly, he said, “Yeah.”

            “Well, that’s the only excuse you’d have for something as messy as this,” she said crossly, but even without looking at her face, he knew she was smiling too.

            By the time he got back on his feet and on the way back to class, it was almost two.  He was more careful this time, pulling the door open with one hand with his body adhered to the side of the lockers. The chatter had subsided, and clumps of kids were scattered around the room, huge poster paper at their feet and markers spilled out around them. Jeno gulped at the sight of the half done posters—they were already better than anything he could do.

            “I’m assuming you’re Jeno?” the voice came from behind him, and he jumped without meaning to. 

            He turned, curling away from the teacher when he spoke. “Yeah, um. Did Mr. Moon tell you?”

            “Yeah, he shot me an email before you got here,” he said, nodding. He was tall but lanky, and he could’ve been intimidating if not for the crooked smile hanging off his face and the washed out Mickey Mouse t-shirt under his apron. He wiped a paint stained hand against his apron and held it out. “I’m Mr. Seo, but you can just call me Johnny, if you want.”

            “I’m Jeno,” he replied, then realized that was pretty fucking redundant. “Um. Never mind, you probably already—where am I sitting?”

            Mr. Seo laughed, and pointed at the far end of the classroom. “Sorry, it’s a bit far from the board, but it’s the only spot open right now. And about the class, it’s made to be hard, curriculum wise, but I teach it as easy as I can so… In terms of deadlines and all that, it’s pretty flexible and if you’re struggling to keep up with the assignments, feel free to talk to me about it, okay?”

            Jeno nodded absently, even though he was a hundred and one percent sure that he’d rather roast himself alive over a fire than hold a conversation longer than five minutes with one of his teachers, even one as cool as Mr. Seo seemed to be. He clapped his hands together, and paint splattered against Jeno’s bottom lip. “Well, since that’s done. I’ve put all the handouts on your desk already, and right now we’re working on a partner activity, it’s basically on…”

            Jeno had a little superpower. No matter how interesting a class was, nor how nice a teacher was, nor how important the information was, it only took him thirty seconds before he stopped listening, whether he liked it or not. He distantly noticed Mr. Seo nodding towards his desk and turning to walk away. In the corner of his eyes, he registered a flash of movement, and turned to glance over.

            His ears went red, and he looked back over at his own desk. You’d think that after meeting him like thirty minutes ago, he wouldn’t panic at the sight of him again. He let out a long suffering sigh and walked over his desk. Under the stack of papers and packets Mr. Seo’d dropped off, there were a couple of slightly bloodstained textbooks. He bit back a small smile.

            Jeno blew out a breath. There was absolutely no reason for him to get all wishy washy over a crush. _Over true love,_ his brain supplied, and he almost brought up his hands to scrub his face before realizing. He took a deep breath, then a couple more, then glanced over his shoulder at the corner where he’d seen him before. Somewhere in his mind, he was still being referred to as ‘the angel’, and it was doing terrible things for his heart.

            This far away, he was safe to ogle him as much as he wanted, provided that he didn’t like, look up and catch him in the act. He must’ve been new; Jeno didn’t think he’d ever seen him before—he’d have remembered if that was the case. That wasn’t the kind of face you passed in the hall and forgot about. People painted decade long portraits of that face, sculpted it out of marble and hung it up in museums and made documentaries of it, the kind he’d watch at two A.M. with his eyes peeking out from under the covers. 

            His brow was furrowed slightly, turquoise brush pen hanging loosely from his hand and poised over the poster paper. He couldn’t make out what it said from here, but it was in some soft script, locked around an image in the center.

            The boy looked up.

            Jeno swore and turned back around. One of these days, he was going to stop trying his luck until it bit him back in the fucking ass. Jesus, he didn’t even want to see his expression. He was a creep, wasn’t he? He was definitely a creep.

            But despite it all, his heart was racing, and taking a seat in his creaky, half broken chair, didn’t do anything to calm it. It was running a marathon, no, a triathlon. Each breath felt like something new, and staring at the paperwork on his desk, the mundaneness of it was almost unbearable. He allowed himself a small frown and shoved the papers into his binder, textbooks back into his nearly overflowing bag. He’d sort it out later at the park, when he’d ask Mark if he could stay over for the night.

            The light reflecting off of his cleaned desk blinked back up at him, and he tapped his fingers against it restlessly until they ached. _Fuck it,_ he thought, then got up again, backpack and all.

            His chair scraped loudly against the floor, and maybe in a different world, in a different timeline of this almost summer afternoon, he’d give a fuck. But he had one year in this classroom, a terrible first impression to overwrite, and a hell of a lot of free time. He might as well give his best. Even if his best was the romantic equivalent of a car engine dying after nudging the car two meters backward.

            “Hey,” he said, after he got to the other boy’s desk. The entire classroom had side eyed him at least once on the trek here, but here he was, unscathed. He felt he deserved an award.

            The angel glanced up at him, eyebrows already arched. “Hey?”

            “So,” Jeno said, because he had to say something. Sometimes, he really fucking wished he’d paid attention in English class. “What’re you doing?”

            The other boy made a choked noise of disbelief. “The assignment? What are _you_ doing?”

            “Making conversation?” Jeno asked, and at the other’s unimpressed look, he continued, “Listen, this is a partner thingy, right? You don’t have a partner, I need one, works out.”

            He shook his head. “I got special permission to work without one.”

            It was then that Jeno glanced down at his paper. It was beautiful, nothing Jeno could imagine to draw in his wildest dreams. He looked back up at him. He was pretty sure he was gaping, but he couldn’t get himself to stop. “This is fucking amazing.”

            His lips twitched, then he returned to shading in a petal. “This is usually what happens when you follow the pathway, you know.”

            Jeno blinked once, before realizing the real meaning of his words. He coughed a little laugh, tracing the fake wood grain of the desks with his index finger. “Ouch, dude. Anyway, like you said, I’ll only get better if I get taught.”

            “Since when was teaching equated to staring at me drawing for like, another half an hour?” he asked without looking up. Jeno had to give it to him; he’d perfected the dry tone of someone who was holding a conversation out of sheer convenience.

            “Visual learning,” Jeno pointed out, leaning forward to see the drawing better. “I did a project on it last year. Shit works.”

            The other boy looked back up, and Jeno rocked back against his seat at the cool look in his eyes. “I’m not going to kick you out of your chair. But you’re not helping out with this—and that is _not_ an invitation for you to try—so if you’re going to sit there, do me a favor and—you know. Shh.”

            Jeno thought that that might be the nicest way anyone had ever told him to shut the fuck up. But he was nothing if not obliging, so he leaned back against the scratchy plastic chair. At first, he tapped his nails against the edge of the table, but after a few minutes, the other boy glared at him again so he let his hands fall against his thighs. He ended up pulling out his Econ readings, but after the first paragraph, a question hit him.

            “Hey, um,” Jeno put up a hand when the boy glared at him, pacifying. “Don’t kill me, please, just one question. I promise this’ll be it.”

            His eyes softened, and he wished he could see it again. He shrugged. “Shoot.”

            “What’s your name?” he asked, thumbing the corner of his packet. At the resounding silence, he looked back up.

            The boy wasn’t looking at him, but past him, and his eyes were thoughtful. There was a hint of something strained in his gaze, a knotted ball of twine behind each eye. Finally, he said, “Figure it out.”

            And with that, he returned to his coloring. Jeno stayed for a bit like that, watching him move without any recollection of the seconds that were passing. The Econ packet had fallen to the surface of the desk.

            _Figure it out._

            In any other moment, it’d have been hostile, or worse than that, apathetic. He’d expected it to be, really, but it was something more complicated, not as easily pulled apart. His mouth curved into a quiet smile, shared between him and the fake wood table. Across from him, the nameless boy was curling vines around the title.

            Jeno pulled out his phone, and the boy shot him a disapproving look before returning to his work. He bit back a snort and opened up his messages.

           

            **jeno _[2:43 P.M.]:_** i need an answer on smth asap

 

            **hyuck _[2:43 P.M.]:_** sorry i’m asleep

 

            **jeno _[2:44 P.M.]:_** so how does that work exactly

 

            **mark _[2:45 P.M.]:_** On what!!

 

            **jeno _[2:45 P.M.]:_** THANK U

 

            **jeno _[2:45 P.M.]:_** there’s this cute boy in my art class… he’s a junior, i think, i’ve never seen him around… he’s REALLY GOOD AT DRAWING

 

            **hyuck _[2:45 P.M.]:_** and…

 

            **jeno _[2:45 P.M.]:_** and… his eyes are like stars… and he looks like an angel…. and he has nice cheeks

 

            **jeno _[2:45 P.M.]:_** is that enough??

 

            **hyuck _[2:46 P.M.]:_** …

 

            **mark _[2:46 P.M.]:_** Can u send a pic

 

            **jeno _[2:46 P.M.]:_** [IMG.ATTACHED]

 

            **hyuck _[2:47 P.M.]:_** dude that’s renjun

 

            **hyuck _[2:47 P.M.]:_** he’s in our grade, he moved here freshman year

 

            **jeno _[2:47 P.M.]:_** but i don’t remember ever seeing him??

 

            **hyuck _[2:47 P.M.]:_** listen i was trying to avoid saying it but. ur dumb as hell

 

            **hyuck _[2:48 P.M.]:_** u asked him for a pencil at least 70 times in english freshman year

 

            **mark _[2:48 P.M.]:_** Oh it’s renjun!!!! Whoops im late

 

            **jeno _[2:48 P.M.]:_** am i the only person who didn’t know his name

 

            **hyuck _[2:49 P.M.]:_** pretty much yeah

 

            **jeno _[2:49 P.M.]:_** understandable have a nice day

 

            **jeno _[2:53 P.M.]:_** WAIT

 

            **jeno _[2:53 P.M.]:_** WHAT’S HIS SURNAME

 

            **hyuck _[2:54 P.M.]:_** huang he moved from china

 

            **jeno _[2:54 P.M.]:_** thanku

 

            Jeno slipped his phone back in his bag. One minute till the bell rang. He leaned forward and tapped at the edge of the poster. The boy—Renjun—had finished a couple minutes ago, writing their names neatly in the corner before beginning to put away his pens. At the sound, he flicked his eyes up, but his hands were still moving. It was disorienting, almost.

            “Huang Renjun,” Jeno said, and the words fit comfortably in his mouth. The boy continued to move, gaze expectant and imperious, and he continued, “That’s your name, right?”

            The corner of his mouth quirked up in something that could’ve been a smile. Jeno counted it as a win. “Welcome to Art 3, Lee Jeno.”

            Then the bell rang, and he raised his hand in a quick farewell before disappearing into the mass of students crowding the door. If he’d been more present in that moment, maybe he would’ve wondered how he’d known his name. But the half smile had held him still, and it took a few minutes before he found the energy to get up and start packing up.

            As he was heaving his bag onto his shoulder, a knock came at the door. Jeno glanced back at Mr. Seo’s desk, but he’d left for some errand or another. “How’d it go with him?”

            Jeno flushed. “Let’s not.”

            Donghyuck gave a low whistle. “You’re never this flustered. That a good thing?”

            “I hope so,” he said, a dreamy edge creeping into his voice before he could stop it.

            Donghyuck screwed up his face. “By the way, you do know you’re never allowed to talk shit about Mark and I ever again, right?” When Jeno didn’t answer, he just jerked a thumb back towards the hallway. “Come on, they’re at the park already.”

            Jeno rubbed a pensive hand over his bag, before hefting the weight on his shoulders and following him out the door. “Yeah, I’m coming.”

           

            …

 

            Renjun was, in fact, a senior. After that fateful first day in art, he seemed to pop up everywhere, and the knot of guilt in Jeno’s chest was rolling its way into becoming a boulder. He thought he’d lost all faith in his own ability to accomplish, well, _anything_ when he’d gotten back his history paper on Play-Doh, but he couldn’t say he was surprised. At least he’d been high when he wrote that—this had no excuse, unless you counted his stupidity, which was valid in and of itself.

            They had a couple classes together. Renjun, being the kid genius he was, was in honors classes that wouldn’t take Jeno if he begged on his knees. So when he was jogging out of the gate with Yukhei on Tuesday morning, there were a lot of things he was expecting to see—puke on the track, gym shorts hiked up too high, fields wet from dew that smelled like piss—but auburn hair tinged dark at the roots was not one of them.

            He slowed slightly, and Yukhei nudged him. “What’s up?”

            Jeno shook his head. “Nothing.”

            But his voice must’ve betrayed it, that little too warm gooeyness seeping in where even the older boy could notice it, because he offered a shit eating grin and said, “That’s Renjun, right?”

            Jeno appreciated Yukhei, he really did. He appreciated his sparkling humor, warm hugs, and almost superhuman ability to acquire pot. And for all of his appreciation, he felt like he didn’t deserve… _this._ He gave a long suffering sigh, but if it came out all glittery and love soaked, that was nobody’s business but his own. “Yeah.”

            Yukhei didn’t say anything for a moment, and they ran silently on the track, the only sound the beating of their sneakers against the uneven cement. Then he inclined his head forward, laughed in that unassuming way. “You know, this repeat of senior year has me rethinking a lot of things.”

            Jeno bit back a response and nodded for him to go on. “Don’t regret it.”

            “Yukhei, he hates me. Like, genuinely hates my guts. Once I stood next to his desk in Econ, and I swear I could feel the rage coming off of him in like, fucking waves.” Jeno brought up his hands to scrub his face wearily.

            The taller boy shrugged. “And? Senior year comes once, usually, and you’ve already wasted three years ignoring his entire existence, so. Nowhere to go but up here, buddy.”

            Jeno gave a small bitter laugh, but his lips were curving. “I’m not sure I agree with you there, man.” And then: “I’ll see you at lunch.”

            He could hear the faint sound of Yukhei’s cheers comng from behind him, but he opted to ignore them and the burning of his ears. He slowed beside Renjun, feet falling in step. The other boy didn’t look at him, eyes fixed on the pavement with an intensity that could topple empires.

            A quiet voice in the back of his head was telling him to weigh the pros and cons before moving, but he’d never been good at thinking before acting. He tapped Renjun on the shoulder, casually, but with all the tact of a top heavy elephant. “Hey.”

            Renjun swore, words tied together that Jeno couldn’t catch, before yanking out his earbuds and balling them up in one hand. He glared over at Jeno. “You better have a good excuse for making me take out my music.”

            Jeno suddenly felt unprepared, but something about the sound of his voice bolstered him. Like somewhere in his chest, there was a little hole that had ‘Turns On Bullshit’ on it, and only Renjun held the key. He grinned, let it hang from one corner of his mouth as he looked up at the laps that lay ahead of them. “What, can’t say hi for the hell of it?”

            “You didn’t feel the need to for three years, so,” Renjun said, but it wasn’t bitter, just a bit amused. Shame reddened Jeno’s face in splotches and he wondered how bad it’d look if he just curled up in the fetal position right here, right now.

            “I’m sorry,” he said, and it must’ve sounded a little too strained, because Renjun just shrugged.

            “Happens to the best of us,” he said. “Just out of curiosity, why _are_ you here?”

            There was no easy way to say, _I think that maybe you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen._ So he didn’t. “Maybe I just thought that you seemed lonely.”

            “I had music in,” he pointed out. “Loud music. ‘Don’t talk to me unless I tell you to’ music. ‘I could kill a man on a sunnier day’ music.”

            Jeno laughed without meaning to, and Renjun slid his eyes towards him once, considering. He sucked in a breath and let it go, trying not to inhale the late morning scent of sweat, dew, and burning rubber as much as he possibly could. “Okay. Maybe I just wanted to talk to you.”

            It was bad. It was pitiful, really, riddled with Swiss cheese holes all over. Jeno felt the inescapable need to shove his head into a wall. But Renjun didn’t notice, or, more to the point, he didn’t say anything about it. Just swung his earbuds from side to side and said, “About what?”

            Jeno’s mind stalled. Somewhere, he thought dazedly, warning bells were ringing. If this were Inside Out, the little emotion shits in his head were clutching each other and wailing on the floor. Weakly, he said, “The weather today?”

            They both looked up at the sky, at the cloudy sky and the sun hanging low in between. When Jeno returned his gaze back to Earth, Renjun was rolling his eyes. But this late, they caught the wan light and shone just a bit. So when he shook his head again, in disappointed disbelief at Jeno’s—being Jeno, he guessed, he found himself surprisingly okay with it.

            That little voice in his head had gotten a piña colada during the entire ordeal and was lying down on a pool chair. It said, _you’re fucked._

            _I know,_ Jeno thought. _I know._

           

…

           

            Yukhei asked him about it in Trig. There was a set of problems on the board, in some language that was probably important and definitely not human. Jeno squinted his eyes at the problems, then back down at his worksheet. The words ‘Analytic Trigonometry’ stared back up at him in accusatory bold black ink. He turned over the paper.

            “Psst,” Yukhei whispered, because he’d never known secrecy in his life, but he watched like, at least three spy movies a week. “Jeno. Jeno. Skater gay. Gay skater. Homosexual—”

            “Why do you keep switching around those words like they’re my only character traits?” Jeno hissed, rubbing the tip of his pencil against his paper in a way that produced a shape vaguely similar to a chihuahua. Seo was going to fail him, that was for sure. “I have a personality, you know.”

            “Debatable,” he shot back with a sympathetic smile. “Actually, has been debated.”

            “Since fucking when,” Jeno asked with little heat. Yukhei nudged him and the chihuahua turned into Pinocchio, but really fucking ugly.

            “You were out,” he said offhandedly. “It was that time we were at Mark’s and you cuddled up with this whole bottle of wine and just like, went to town.”

            Jeno remembered that night vaguely, or rather, he remembered the outline of the gaping hole in his memory around the night itself. He sighed. “What do you want?”

            “How’d it go with the hot painter hookup?”

            Something about the crudeness of it sat wrong with him. Moreso because he was pretty sure that before Renjun, this was a common thing, a common _mutual_ thing. Jeno cast a longing gaze at the door and wondered if he could possibly take the rest of the week off to do some introspective soul searching. Yukhei nudged him again, and Pinocchio grew a tail. He rubbed his eyes. “We just talked.”

            Yukhei made an unsatisfied noise, and he added, “I talked, and he tolerated, and I floundered, and he rolled his eyes. Done?”

            “Can’t imagine you floundering,” he mused. “You’re smooth, when you want to be.”

            Jeno thought back wistfully on those days, when he could make his mouth do what he wanted it to. “Debatable.”

            Mr. Kim tapped his meter stick on their desks, one tap each. He was the only teacher at the school that still carried them around, and, Jeno was pretty sure, the only one in their district. He gave one of those wide bright white smiles that spoke of impending detention, and said calmly, “Those are due by the end of class for quiz credit. It’s an open note, open textbook, partner quiz. Don’t test my kindness.”

            In the end, their grades would look the same no matter how they spent the rest of the period, but it was the beginning of the year after all. If there was a time to pretend he wasn’t headed for failure, it was now.

 

…

 

            There was a point where things blurred, Jeno thought. Where it went from awkward to less awkward and semi friendly and annoying in an okay way, and toed the line from that to something genuine.

            Whatever he had with Renjun was miles from that point.

            The point might as well have been buried in Pluto, too far to reach even with a facsimile of true love and marker stained grabby hands. Jeno dreamed of that point, made a shrine to it in the corners of his mind when he probably should’ve been doing his Trig quiz but well. He was human, after all.

            Art 3 wasn’t as hard as he’d come in thinking, but that was mostly because Seo taught him the class like he was a freakishly tall toddler in a hoodie. After the third info sheet annotated top to bottom with thin, sprawling handwriting, it was getting noticeable.

            They were working on still lifes today. The class had gotten an intricate glass fixture hanging from the ceiling and Jeno, well. Jeno had gotten an apple.

            “Apples are important!” Mr. Seo had said, waving his hands for emphasis. “Everyone needs to know how to draw an apple properly, it’s a structural necessity. Trust me, everyone in this room has drawn a couple apples. Me, I’ve drawn a couple hundred. Fuckin’ love apples.”

            Jeno had been getting dizzy from the hands, and, by the time he’d finished his apple speech, was beginning to inch away slowly. “Good talk, Mr. Seo.”

            Anyway, apples, as intricate and complex and eye opening as they were, didn’t take a lot of time to draw, especially when you were as shitty at drawing them as Jeno was. Immediately after finishing the drawing, he turned it over. He could see the faint outline of it through the thin paper, and he allowed himself a small shudder.

            He quietly pushed his chair in, gathered his stuff and crept over to Renjun’s corner of the room. They talked a bit in Art, if Jeno’s one sided chattering and pitiful flirting could pass as talking. Half the time, Renjun had earbuds in, but Jeno counted them as victories anyway.

            Today, he didn’t have music in, shoulders bunched with effort and head covering most of the paper he was drawing on. Jeno dropped his stuff by his chair, startling him slightly. He took him in with—recognition, but past that it was unreadable. Then he turned back to his drawing. Jeno swiveled his head from side to side, trying to catch a glimpse of it. He screwed up his face. “What _is_ that? A cow?”

            Renjun murmured something unintelligible, darkening the lines of the cow’s jaw. Jeno tapped his ear and leaned in, presumptuous in a way he never was with anyone else. “Can’t hear you, Picasso.”

            The smaller boy glared at him from close quarters. There were laser beams in those eyes, pinning him to the other wall, but Jeno swallowed and stood his ground. Renjun cleared his throat, but even then, his voice came out too quiet. “Moomin, I’m drawing Moomin.”

            Jeno squinted at him. “Mormon?”

            Renjun’s head snapped towards him, and he took an involuntary step back. One of these days was going to be his last. They could put up one of Renjun’s cow drawings at the wake in place of his face. His parents probably wouldn’t even notice the difference.

            “I’m drawing _Moomin,_ not Mormon, not merman, not whatever lame fucking joke you’re about to interrupt with,” Renjun shot back, and Jeno blinked, paralyzed. Curse words sounded different coming from him, less casual bite and more profane annoyance. From the front of the classroom, Seo made a loud shhing noise, a single finger pressed to his lips before he continued reading his magazine.

            Jeno put up his hands, then brought them down almost immediately after. “I’m sorry, man, not everyone is as acquainted with cow species as you are.”

            Renjun’s lips parted in astonishment, and he took a moment to bang his head—quietly—against the table. Jeno shifted uncomfortably, one hand stationed awkwardly on the side of a supply cabinet. When the other boy looked back at him, there was a hint of amusement in his eyes, raw and unsaturated with his usual scorn. Jeno’s chest clenched strangely; his heart was practicing gymnastics.

            “Has anyone told you,” Renjun started, equal parts weary and wondrous, “That you’re a complete idiot?”

            Jeno grinned. “Every teacher, every year, every day.”

            Renjun snorted, and his heart contorted itself into a pretzel. “Why do you say that like you’re proud?”

            He lifted his shoulders in a shrug, leaned back against the metal supports of the supply cabinet and pretended not to hear the resounding creak. “What else am I gonna be proud about?”

            Before Renjun could say anything else, he jerked his head at the paper. “Can I see?”

            His head tilted. “Why?”

            _Be smooth,_ the voice in his head said. Jeno coughed. “I like your art.”

            The tips of his ears burned. This was great. This was fucking amazing. Renjun glanced back at him, a blush high on his cheeks. It was almost invisible, almost imaginary but it was there. Jeno’s heart did a somersault. He said, “Thanks.”

            Renjun moved the paper so he could see it. It was a cartoon bovine character, with strangely human looking hands. The eyes blinked up at him, wide and shining. To his side, Renjun watched him with the same eyes, and Jeno felt untethered.

            “I, um,” he said, because his vocabulary had gotten hit by a torpedo. “That’s really good.”

            He laughed. “It’s a doodle. Anyone could do that, I bet even you could.”

            Jeno decided to ignore that he was the artistic rock bottom in Renjun’s head. “Still. It’s really cute. Is he, uh, your favorite character?”

            Renjun shrugged. “Yeah, and I’ve been drawing him ever since I was a kid, so it’s kinda second nature to doodle him.”

            Jeno smiled. There was a casualness in his voice that was new, a far cry from the usual annoyance and thin neutrality. He felt like maybe he wanted to keep this moment, stay here in this one second forever.

            Seo called from the front of the classroom, “Time’s up! Turn them in, I’ll give them back to you next class.”

            Renjun’s gaze dropped back to his paper, and he busied himself with cleaning up. Jeno tapped his foot softly against the floor. Whatever there was in that moment had left in the next, and now he was left trying to pretend like he didn’t feel awkward here. But he was content. For a second, they’d touched that point. Didn’t matter that now they were back on Earth, a couple feet separating them and yet miles apart. For a moment, they’d been on Pluto, and so when the bell rang and Renjun left without a backward glance, Jeno allowed himself a small smile.

           

            …

 

            “How’s it going with Renjun?”        

            They were all smoking, the skateboards leaned against the tree in the corner of the park. No one ever found them here, or made the effort to. Jeno’s back was pressed to Yukhei’s, and Donghyuck and Mark were twisted complicatedly. Looking at them made Jeno dizzy.

            “What?” Jeno asked, half to buy himself time, half because he hadn’t registered the question the first time.

            Mark waved his hand vaguely, and it smacked Donghyuck in the shoulder. The latter rubbed the area sullenly. “You know, your art crush. Any progress?”

            “Depends on what you count as progress,” he said cryptically, and blew out some smoke.

            Donghyuck snorted. “That’s Jeno for ‘I’ve gotten nowhere’.”

            Jeno slumped against Yukhei’s back. “I wouldn’t go that far. Sometimes we talk. The other day, we made nonaggressive eye contact.”

            Yukhei started laughing, loopy enough that Jeno felt the shaking through the back of his shirt. “Dude, just make a fucking move.”

            ‘Making a fucking move’, as it turned out, was not that easy.

            Econ on Fridays was the worst, because on Fridays, the senioritis got so bad that the entire classroom turned into a cesspool of shouting, vaping, and badly concealed PDA. Sometimes, Jeno really questioned the sanity of his class.

            “Listen,” Mr. Qian called out, from where he was despairingly observing the chaos from his desk. “You have a test next class! It’s worth a hundred points! It’s your first score into the gradebook!”

            When he realized no one was listening, he cast another sad frown around the classroom and then returned to his Sudoku puzzle. Jeno felt like he was too young for this.

            In the midst of all the madness, Renjun was a small quiet spot. The area around him was silent and empty, and his earbuds were blaring some loud music that he couldn’t catch the nuances of. When Jeno leaned out and tapped his shoulder, he jumped, hackles rising for half a second before he turned to face him and relaxed. Jeno didn’t know what to think of that.

            Jeno pulled up a chair with one hand, sitting against the back of it with his legs spread. He held his head up with one hand, nodding at his paper. “What’re you doing?”

            Renjun didn’t answer for a moment, gaze untethered. There were dark circles around his eyes. He cleared his throat, and when he spoke, his voice was heavy with weariness. “Calculus.”

            Jeno had taken great pains in order to never deal with Calculus in the span of his high school career, but he figured he could make an exception this time. He leaned forward so he could see the title at the top of the paper. ‘Review: Integration of Logarithms’.

            “So,” he said, tilting his head so the side of his cheek smushed uncomfortably against his palm. “How’s that going?”

            “Terribly,” he said with little inflection, and put his earbuds back in. But even that admission didn’t seem too honest—he worked through the problems quickly. Jeno, of course, had no idea what he was writing, from the swiggly sign before each problem to the actual mathematics involved.

 _I could never imagine being that fucking smart,_ he thought. Renjun gave him a weird look, and he straightened, hands falling to his thighs when he realized he’d said it aloud.

            “I’m not that smart,” he said, in that casually self deprecating way kid geniuses loved. Jeno snorted and jerked his head behind him.

            “You’re smarter than more than half this class.”

            “Is that supposed to mean something?” he asked, lips twitching even though his eyes were back on the problems.

            “Just take the compliment, Huang,” Jeno said, groaning.

            “Hmph,” Renjun responded, scratching out an answer on his worksheet without offering any other words.

            And he should’ve gotten up, then. He should’ve went back to his seat and held up whatever kind of flimsy wall existed between them in every class but Art. But he was nothing if not stupidly bold, nothing if not stupidly in love, and so he just leaned forward and doodled small smiley faces trailing down the edge of Renjun’s worksheet.

            He squinted at them. “Why are the features too small for their faces?”

            Jeno drew another, sketched a wide circle around a too small pair of eyes and a miniscule c for a mouth. “They’re potato smileys. Only thing I can draw.”

            Renjun was quiet for a moment, meditative, and—there was a lot of things Jeno expected him to say. _Are these even considered drawing? That’s an ugly fucking potato smiley. Can you leave me alone for once?_ The list went on and on.

            “They’re really cute,” he said. Jeno, so close to the paper that his nose could’ve brushed it if he was any closer, made a choking noise so intense and long that it pitched him forward into the table.

            He pulled himself back up to a sitting position. Renjun was staring at him with a mixture of confusion, concern, and a dismay he couldn’t quite read. Jeno tapped at his throat a couple times, rolled his neck around, then forced himself to look back at Renjun.

            “Was that a compliment?” he asked, disbelief creeping into his voice where he couldn’t help it. “Like, a real, genuine compliment?”

            Renjun’s mouth twisted. “What, can’t call your dumb potato smiley cute for the hell of it?”

            “Those big heads are a sign of intelligence,” Jeno shot back before he could help it. Goddamn his mouth.

            The other boy gave a small laugh, bright and brief. Jeno longed to turn back time, wrap up that laugh in tinfoil and carry it home with him. When it subsided, for a moment, his mouth was settled into a smile. It might’ve been the first time he’d ever smiled at him.

            The bell rang, and the spell ended, like it always did. Jeno considered holding a very aggressive conversation with the admin about shifting the bell schedule a couple minutes late.

            Renjun cast a mournful look at his unfinished worksheet. He glared at Jeno, but it was half hearted, for once. “You know, when I turn this in and Ms. Son asks me why it’s not done. I’ll give her your name.”

            “I’ll never take Calculus, anyway,” he shrugged. Renjun sighed, shook his head and started packing up. He looked out at the classroom and Jeno followed his gaze. It was beginning to empty out for lunch, the thick floral scent in the air the only sign that there’d been people there at all.

            When Jeno turned back to look at Renjun, he’d left. Jeno traced the faint smiley face shaped indents on the desk where he’d pressed down too hard and sighed. He wasn’t sure ‘making a fucking move’ was for him.

            “Are you going to leave?” Mr. Qian asked without looking up. For a moment, the only sound was the scratching of his pencil against the Sudoku.

            Jeno’s ears burned. “Yeah. Yeah, sorry, see you Tuesday.”

 

…

 

            “’Operation: Make A Fucking Move’ flopped,” Jeno announced as he dropped into place at the center of their lunch table.

            Mark frowned. “It can’t have gone that bad.”

            Donghyuck shook his head. “Stop, you’re gonna jinx it. There’s no such thing as rock bottom with Jeno.”

            “Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence,” Jeno said, sarcasm heavy in his voice. “Anyway, turns out drawing smiley faces and distracting him from his homework isn’t like, the hugest turn on.”

            “Really?” Donghyuck asked, mock shocked, and Jeno would’ve given anything to disentangle him from Mark and get a good hit in. “I never would’ve guessed!”

            Jeno closed his eyes, let his face go tomato red, vermilion red, and pressed the entirety of it into the cold dampness of the lunch table. The smell of rotting lunch meat filled his nostrils.

            “Is he okay?” Jisung asked, sitting down beside him. The table shifted for half a second, and the smell grew unbearable.

            “Leave me alone,” he mumbled around the table.

            “He’s being angsty over his art crush,” Donghyuck informed him with the familiar snark he saved for Jisung.

            “Loser,” Jisung said, and Donghyuck gave an emphatic nod that sent a shake through the table. Jeno felt like as his brother, he could’ve been a little more sympathetic. Just a little bit.

            Yukhei put his elbows down on the table and made a humming noise. “I’m serious, man, just make a—”

            Jeno pulled himself up and glared over at him. He snapped, “If you tell me to make a fucking move—"

            Yukhei fell quiet, and he huffed a dry laugh. “Thought so.”

            “Jeno, Yukhei and I—as your elders—could have some useful advice,” Mark started, and Jeno held up a hand to stop him.

            “No,” he said. “You’re already late for your shift at Walmart, and Yukhei is fucking repeating this year, so forgive me if I don’t have the greatest faith in your advice.”

            Silence and then: “Ouch.”

            Jeno glared at Jisung. “Do your Geometry homework.”

            “Already finished it,” he replied smugly. “Perks of having more than one working brain cell.”

            Jeno made a long, frustrated noise, muffled by the hands he’d brought up to cover his face. A tap on his shoulder prompted him to remove the hands, and he glanced over, wary at best. Yukhei held a small container of banana milk in his hands. He pushed it forward, and Jeno tilted his head. “For me?”

            He snorted, taking a second to cough a laugh off to the side before continuing. “No, dude. For Renjun. It’s his favorite flavor.”

            Jeno threw his hands up despairingly. “How do you even know this? We’ve been talking for like, weeks, and the most I’ve gotten out of him is that he’s allergic to cucumbers.”

            Yukhei shook his head. “Heard it through the grapevine.” Before Jeno could ask how information that specific and miniscule traveled through the grapevine, he added, “Be smooth. It’s not that hard, man, just don’t—” he lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Don’t royally fuck up.”

            Across the table, Donghyuck rapped his knuckles against the faux wood, three times in succession. Jeno flipped him the bird.

            _Don’t royally fuck up._ He could do that—how hard could it be to stay at mediocrity?

            He clutched the milk in his hands, condensation wetting his hands. He cast a helpless glance out at the quad, then back at his friends. Donghyuck shook his head wearily. “They’re over there, by the Music building. No, not over there, a bit to the left—yeah, there. Think you can make it without like, collapsing from the intensity of your love?”

            “Shut up,” Jeno mumbled and clutched milk to his chest tighter.

            Jeno started the long, arduous trek across the quad. There were a couple sets of eyes on him, that was true. Not that many, not half as many as his anxiety was telling him there was, but a couple. Somehow, that didn’t make the walk any easier.

            _Just give him the milk,_ he thought. _Give him the milk, and maybe casually tell him he’s the love of your life._

            Renjun and his friends sat at a table under the shade of the awning of the Music building, too shadowy to see unless you were looking for it. He could see the outlines of them from this far, Renjun and two other boys he didn’t quite recognize.

            Maybe, he just didn’t know half his grade. Maybe the weed had killed his brain.

            When he was close enough, a couple meters away, one of the other boys looked up and saw him. He had a sharp nose and dark eyes, and even from faraway, Jeno could pick up the faintest hint of hostility in them. He swallowed hard and fought the urge to run away.

            The new boy nudged Renjun, and he glanced up. Confusion turned to recognition which turned to a kind of guarded curiosity. The last boy had looked up in the midst of it, and regarded Jeno with wide eyes and a smirk that made him feel vulnerable, laid on a cold examining table with nowhere to go.

            A small noise came from below, and he realized he’d been clenching the banana milk too hard in his hands. He brought it up, kept his eyes on the container so he didn’t have to meet Renjun’s gaze, and popped out the dents in the milk. Took another deep breath and pretended that this was fine, that this was something he did every day. And technically he did. Every day, he made a fool of himself, and Renjun tolerated it, and life went on.

            He inched a bit closer, so he was actually in front of the table. “Um,” he said.

            Renjun blinked at him. “To what do I owe the honor?”

            Jeno’s mouth curved. “Since when was talking with me an honor?”

            “You’re right,” he replied drily. “What’s that in your hand?”

            His lips opened and closed, reminiscent of a fish. Finally, he just brought it up and placed it on the table, nudged it closer until it sat in front of Renjun. One corner of the container was folded over, and he made an effort to unfold it. It shot back down, and Jeno resigned himself to it.

            Renjun raised an inquisitive eyebrow and he coughed. “For you. The milk that is, even though there’s nothing else there.”

            “Oh,” he said, and there was a hint of surprise there. Triumph sparked behind his breastbone, like that was worth anything at all. But—small victories. He’d take it. “Why?”

            Jeno shrugged. “Just because.”

            The other boy narrowed his eyes. “How do you even know I like banana milk?”

            Alarm held his body taut. _My friend told me because I was whining about my huge fucking crush on you?_ Nope. Weakly, he said, “Lucky guess?”

            Renjun shook his head, that _‘Oh, Lee Jeno’_ gesture that seemed to speak of scorn and awe and warmth all in one movement. Then he tapped his finger against the corner of the milk. “Thanks, I owe you. What about you, what do you drink?”

            “Vodka,” he said, because he had no filter, and maybe that was kind of a problem. The boy to Renjun’s right, the dark eyed one, spit out a mouthful of something clear and bubbly. The other huffed in annoyance.

            “Jaemin, you got sparkling soda on my sandwich!”

            “Sorry, Chenle,” Jaemin apologized, but there was little inflection in it, and his eyes were fixed on Jeno, like if he stared just a bit harder he’d cease to exist. He shifted to the side.

            “Sorry,” he said. “Um, I don’t know. Energy drinks? Coffee?”

            Renjun nodded once, decisive. “Got it. By the way, you should cut down on the caffeine. Dehydration and all.”

            “Yeah,” Jeno agreed, like he knew what that meant and why he was saying it and was paying attention to anything more than the curl of Renjun’s hair against his forehead. “I’ll see you in class, then.”

            “See you,” Renjun said, and turned away. After a few seconds, Jaemin returned to the conversation too, and after a few more, Chenle turned his gaze away. Jeno heaved a sigh and took the short way back to his table.

 _Don’t royally fuck up._ He was never taking Yukhei’s advice ever again.

 

…

 

            It was late September now, and school had become less of a nuisance and more of a routine. Last period art had cut itself into his life, and Jeno had given up complaining about it. At least he was so shit at it that whenever he finished bullshitting his assignments, he had the option of looking across the classroom and watching Renjun work. It was the small shit that counted, really.

            Jeno folded another one, and checked Seo’s desk. He was out talking with Ten, the world history teacher. Jeno didn’t really know if Ten had a first name or whether that _was_ his first name. He didn’t know if anyone knew—he was a mysterious man. Once, he’d caught him eating quinoa in the half abandoned staff room Jeno sometimes used to smoke in. Who the fuck even ate quinoa?

            He held it up, pushed it back past his ear and let it go. It flew through the stagnant air of the art room, the arc of it nearly beautiful amidst the banality of it all. He could’ve admired it, if he wasn’t caught up in berating himself over how stupid this entire plan was. It fell onto Renjun’s desk, close enough that it hit his pencil on the way down.

            Jeno watched anxiously as he unwrapped the paper airplane and read the small message written in the center. The other boy looked over at him, eyebrows raised and lips pressed tight together in what was either disapproval or in an attempt to prevent laughter. He decided to be optimistic.

            Then, Renjun very carefully tore up the paper in strips, then took the strips and ripped them again. Small squares of paper fell to his desk, a few of them fluttering to the floor. Jeno’s heart flopped face down. He mimed a tear falling down his cheek.

            Renjun crossed his arms and gathered the paper up in his hands before stalking past him to the entrance and throwing it all away. He returned to his desk and opened his sketchbook back up, catching Jeno’s eye before starting to draw again. He pressed his index finger against the side of his neck and drew it across. It was a pretty easy movement to read.

            Jeno nodded knowingly, gave him a thumbs up and a smile. Renjun jerked his own head in acknowledgement and curled over his sketchbook again.

           He glanced at the door, then at Seo’s desk. Then he pulled out another piece of crumpled notebook paper from his bag and began to write.

 

…

 

            hey huang,

            go out w me some time?

            love, jeno

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave me a comment/kudos if u could !! <333 also find me on twt @ [hwanguIt](https://twitter.com/hwanguIt) and on curiouscat @ [chuuist](https://curiouscat.me/chuuist)


	2. you give me a good reason to be heartsick again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey,” he said, breathless for some reason, and Jeno looked over in surprise. He didn’t have time to analyze it too much, squinting and looking forward into the locker. Following his attempt, there was a chittering noise. “Is that—alive?”
> 
> Jeno slammed his locker shut and kept it closed with one outstretched hand, offering him one of his winning smiles. It was bright, if a bit strained. “What’s up?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHH this has been a WEEK! some things to watch out for:  
> \- drug use in two scenes. graphic one begins at "an overgrown whisper" and ends at the end of that scene. mild one begins at "time passed" and ends at "it didn't"  
> \- mentions of underage alcohol use  
> \- playlist for this chapter [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/varsh-bear/playlist/6lTLAXBWKbbgTuglJ6mDhz?si=JtfqId64SRO0bTSly7OZNQ)  
> \- chapter title from let me down easy by gang of youths. jo's fault!  
> \- BTW THANKS TO EVERYONE WHO LEFT A COMMENT AND ALSO LADLADLA AND ALSO KAYA FOR MOTIVATING ME TO WRITE THIS INSTEAD OF LETTING IT ROT. :D ilu guys

            There were a lot of problems with Renjun’s schedule this year, but he thought the biggest one was probably Lee Jeno.

            The boy in question was across the field, tossing around the soccer ball. Technically, Renjun was supposed to be out there too. Technically, he was supposed to be playing. But there was only so much Lee Jeno one could take in a single day, and Renjun thought that maybe he’d reached his limits.

            His jock friend—Yukhei?—tossed the ball back at him and he head bumped it, stretching to catch the ball. The edges of his worn gym shirt rode up and revealed a slice of his back, and Renjun averted his eyes. The universe was against him, it seemed like.

            He cast a glance at Mr. Nakamoto, on the bleachers, whistling sporadically with little aggression behind each toot. A stack of books sat beside him, dog-eared and threatening. The thought of the packets of Women’s Studies homework he had waiting for him after school made him nauseous.

            “Did Jeno’s bare skin break you? We should put in a Victorian dress code for the guys too, you know. The gays, and all.”

            Renjun flopped back onto the fake turf, letting the short grass and gravel bite into his bare calves. Jaemin hovered above him, shading his body from the sun. He smiled and held up two cans of soda. Renjun patted the spot beside him.

            “You know,” he said, taking a seat and drumming his fingers against Renjun’s ratty old gym t-shirt. “I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to actually exercise in gym. I could be wrong, though.”

            Renjun rolled over, and Jaemin’s fingers began again on his arm. His eyes reluctantly opened, and he stared at the turf sullenly. “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

            “Probably,” he replied, drumming out a quiet beat on the crook of his elbow. “Thought I’d get a good taste of the teenage experience, though, skip for once. Doesn’t matter, anyway, I could probably skip every day this week and keep an A in Life Skills.”

            Renjun pulled himself up to a sitting position, taking a moment to attempt calming his hair before giving up on it. He scowled at Jaemin. “Why’d you even take Life Skills?”

            He spread his hands. “Why does any high school student take a career elective? Free period.”

            Renjun snorted and brought up his knees, rested his hands on the tops. “Asshole.”

            “Language,” Jaemin said with the same tone of voice, then jerked his head towards the field. “So, thoughts? You’re in leadership, I’m sure you could get it through if you batted your eyelashes enough.”

            He huffed and cast a glance out at the field. Jeno caught him, raising a hand with a surprised smile beginning on his face. His cheeks burned and he looked away, meeting Jaemin’s amused gaze. Jesus Christ.

            “Don’t say anything,” Renjun warned.

            “Wasn’t going to,” he replied, and handed him a can of orange soda.

            They were silent for a moment, just the hiss of the drinks and the distant shouts of the game. It should’ve made him a little ashamed, a little afraid of being caught, but he couldn’t find it in himself to go out there.

            He let out a quiet sigh, putting down the empty drink and running his fingers through the short turf beside his shins. “Before you can say anything else,” he said to the sun, “I’m over him.”

            “Never said you weren’t,” Jaemin returned lightly, before cocking his head. “But three years of pointless crushing—”

            “Two and a half years,” he cut in. “Last semester was Jeno-Free.”

            “Two and a half years,” he continued pointedly. “People don’t just—turn their feelings on and off.”

            “I can try,” Renjun muttered, crushing the can slowly in his fingers.

            “Hey, I get that you’re pissed, but don’t take it out on the poor can,” Jaemin cut in, and he snorted, let it fall to the ground between them. He laid down, propped himself up on one elbow and squinted at him.

            “What are you trying to say?”

            Jaemin moved back, then promptly flopped down on his stomach and observed the game through the gaps in his fingers. His hoodie rode up on his back. Casually, he said, “Don’t hurt yourself bending over backwards for him, is all.”

            Renjun couldn’t help but laugh at that, and Jaemin squinted at him in the early morning light. He shook his head, ran his fingers through the turf. “I’m not. Bending over backwards for him, that is.” He glanced over at him, then out at the field, where Jeno was jogging beside Yukhei. He was grinning, Renjun thought, bright wide teeth that had no place in this dismal excuse for a high school. He looked back at Jaemin. “I’m over him. Trust me.”

            Jaemin stared at him for a bit longer, scrutinizing but affectionate, then shrugged and turned towards the field. “If he breaks your heart, I’m not picking up the pieces, by the way.”

            “You say that now,” he said. A shout came from the bleachers—Mr. Nakamoto blowing his whistle in short, quick bursts. When there was a grand total of three rules governing a game, you’d expect people to be able to follow them. But his classmates never failed to impress him in that regard. Renjun toyed with the destroyed can. “Can I come over after school?”

            Jaemin reached out and punched his shoulder. “Of course.”

           

            …

 

            He didn’t think about Jeno for the rest of the day, and when he went over to Jaemin’s to make brownies and talk shit about rest of the school, it made going home that much easier. Chenle had even given them a small paper fan of himself so that he’d feel included.

            But good things never lasted forever. It was cosmic karma, really. He’d fallen asleep for the entirety of Gov unscathed, and so he had to pay the price. It was just a pity that the price came in the form of his math homework.

            Ms. Son stopped by his desk when she handed it to him, her lipstick far too bright for nine in the morning. He wondered if she’d accept constructive criticism on it.

            “Renjun?” she asked, and he blinked.

            “Sorry,” he said, offering a quick bashful smile. “What were you saying?”

            She tapped at the smiley faces lining the edge of his worksheet, then at the two unfinished problems at the bottom. He winced. She shook her head, and he stiffened, braced for the speech on how AP students had to hold themselves to a higher standard. Maybe, if she was in a good mood, she’d follow it with a small pep talk and list of possible destressing strategies.

            “These are _so cute,”_ she gushed, and Renjun had to rub his eyes to make sure he hadn’t fallen asleep again. He let go of his side of the paper, and it fluttered to the desk. He stared it, uncomprehending, and she continued, “You know, I was beginning to become worried about you! Not that you’re a bad student, you’re amazing, but sometimes you look so tired. It’s nice to see that you’re finding a way to release that pent up stress.”

            Renjun read the words in red ink at the top of the sheet. _Keep up the good work! Turn it in completed next class for full credit._

            She continued rambling, some long winding talk about how doodling is good for the mind and why teenagers need eight hours of sleep a night. The bunny stamp on the paper grew more accusing with every second, and eventually Renjun surreptitiously covered it with his hand.

            “Well, anyway,” she finished, “You demonstrate a good grasp of the concepts, so I’ll let it slide this time! Remember, on my desk before nine on Friday morning.”

            Vaguely, he remembered one of his old friends’ rants about how she’d given them an F on a test for limit signs. He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved, confused, or uncomfortable, so he chalked up the bile building in his throat to a combination of all three.

            Even after she left, the worksheet sat on his desk, a discomfiting reminder. The potato smileys had smudged in Ms. Son’s custody, mouths gone blurry, and it sent a small pang of sadness through him for no good reason. He tugged it towards himself haphazardly and worked through the last two problems quickly, stuffing it into his folder as soon as he was done. Renjun leaned back against his chair, scrubbed his face like that’d somehow get the image out of his head.

            _Fuck Lee Jeno,_ he thought. Then he glanced at the board, at the lecture Ms. Son was attempting to hold on volumes of solids of revolution, at his half asleep classmates. He pulled his sketchbook out of his bag and began to draw.  

            Renjun meant to talk to Jeno about it in Econ, but the test ate up most of class. He finished pretty quickly, turned in the paper to a harried looking Mr. Qian and returned to his desk. On the other side of the classroom, Jeno was hunched over his desk. Renjun could almost see the steam coming out of his ears, the confusion etched on his face even though he could only make out a sliver of it.

            His lips twitched, and he frowned at himself, took out his sketchbook and resumed from last period. His pencil tip snapped and he swore under his breath, low but long, and a snort came from above him.

            “Hey, Huang,” Jeno said in that carelessly irritating way he had. Renjun rolled his eyes, a Pavlovian response at this point, and almost continued sketching before he realized. He rubbed the broken tip against the paper once, then set it down on the desk. Jeno laughed again, a short, bright sound, and Mr. Qian glared at him from across the room.

            “Some people are still testing,” he said, voice quiet but monotonous. “We should give them the same silence.”

            Jeno’s lips twisted, uncaring, and Renjun picked up his pencil, pushed past him to sharpen it. When he got back, the other had stolen his seat, shoes up on his desk and fingers thumbing the edge of his sketchpad.

            His head throbbed with the possibilities.

            He held out his hand, mouth dry. “Give it back.”

            “Hmm,” he said, considering. He tilted his head, and the look in his eyes was infuriating. “I think I’ll keep it.”

            “Give me back my _fucking_ sketchpad or I swear to God I’ll—”

            “Or you’ll what?” Jeno tossed it to him, but his eyebrows were arched. “What’s in there that you don’t want me to see?” He waggled his brows suggestively, and Renjun pinched the bridge of his nose. What had he ever seen in him?

            “Get out of my spot,” he said, and unceremoniously shoved him out. Jeno didn’t resist, quietly finding purchase on the edge of the desk and pulling himself back up. He hooked himself around the back of an empty desk and put his elbows down on the surface of Renjun’s.

            “So,” Jeno said, mirth bright at the edges of his voice, and Renjun’s stomach sank. “Potato smileys?”

            “Fuck off,” he mumbled, hiding his quickly reddening his face behind his sketchpad. “I was trying something new.”

            “New is good,” he said decisively, as if Renjun needed any advice regarding that. He snorted and closed the book, the edges of his offending smileys still visible. He forced himself not to wince. In a quieter voice, he continued, “You’re good at them.”

            He couldn’t help a laugh at that, and across the room, Mr. Qian shot him a disappointed look. His lips twisted in something that was a smile but not quite, and he shoved his sketchpad back into his bag. “Now that’s just flattery.”

            Jeno shook his head, eyes shining with a genuineness that came off too strong in the dim fluorescent light. “I don’t joke about potato smileys, dude.”

            Renjun pressed his lips together to avoid smiling. A quiet chatter began to build in the corners of the room and he cast a glance out at the class. A slowly growing stack of papers sat beside Mr. Qian. Jeno hummed lightly, and he looked over.

            “How do you think you did?” he asked, screwing up his mouth in distaste. “I think I failed.”

            Renjun shook his head. “You probably didn’t. I think I did fine.”

            He buried his head in his hands. “No, seriously. I didn’t know half the shit on there.”

            Sympathy bit at his chest, sharp and brief. He thought, _This isn’t any of your business._ “Do you want my notes?”

            Jeno looked up at him, blinking rapidly with the beginnings of a smile forming on his face. “Really?”

            He forced a smile. “Yeah, it’s no problem.”

            Renjun dug through his backpack, regret slowing him. His little brain goblins had gotten together and were dancing around in a circle, throwing blossoms in the air, as they often did. _Dumbass, dumbass, dumbass,_ they chorused. Renjun pulled out a stack of papers and handed them to him. “Here you go.”

            Jeno thumbed through them reverentially, examining his neat print as if it was the holy grail. “Holy fuck, thank you so much, man, seriously.”

            His commas tripped over each other, and Renjun could only barely keep himself from an expressive reaction at it all. But his lips quirked upward against his will and Jeno looked like he wanted to say something about it, but before he could, the bell rang. It was a surprisingly mundane sound, and it sent him off kilter, steadied him in the same moment.

            It was too easy to forget where he was, and the years he’d spent before this. A reality check was healthy once in a while, if a bit painful.

            He raised his hand in a quick farewell and zipped up his bag as quick as it would let him, weaving around the building crowd before Jeno could say anything more.

            He made it to the lunch table safe and sound, physically at least. His heart still beat against his chest too hard for no reason, like if he took a moment to catch his breath he’d be back there and faced with eyes too bright for a Thursday afternoon.

            In his defense, it wasn’t even really a ‘I had a crush on you for two and a half years and I’m still coping with the aftershocks’ kind of moment. Just Lee Jeno being—himself. Which was to say, too much.

            Renjun heaved a heavy sigh and took another bite of his sandwich.

            “What’s wrong?” Chenle piped up, taking a seat beside him and nudging him against the wall. Renjun got the hint and scooted to the side.

            “Nothing,” he said, but his voice sounded strange even to himself.

            “He’s having boy problems,” Jaemin cut in, taking a seat across from them. Renjun glared at him; he smiled graciously.

            “’Men are pigs’,” Chenle said calmly, with the air of someone far wiser than his years.            

            Renjun raised his eyebrows. “Where’d you hear that one?”

            “Miss Kang, the new geography teacher,” he replied between bites of fruit roll up. Renjun could see several other fruit roll ups peeking out of his lunch bag, and decided not to say anything about it for the time being.

            “She’s right,” Jaemin put in, biting off the tip of a banana aggressively. “Renjun knows best of all.”

            He put down his sandwich and sighed again, as if that would change the situation drastically. He eyed the rye bread with distaste. “How long till next period?”

            “Fifteen minutes,” Chenle supplied through a mouthful of sugar.

            “What, can’t wait to see him?” Jaemin cut in, and Renjun broke off from analyzing his sandwich to glare at him. “Cool it with the death glare, it’s not like I’m wrong.”

            The bread smushed in his hands. He dried them against his jeans, and checked the time again.

 

            …

 

            “Hey, Huang.” The voice came from above him, as it always did. He pulled out his earbuds and raised his eyebrows at him.

            “What?”

            Jeno gave a small smile, tightlipped and thoughtful, and took the seat beside him. He opened his mouth, then closed it, and the anticipation was almost painful. To distract himself, Renjun continued with the assignment. Across the classroom, Seo was drawing a sea otter on Photoshop. One day, he’d tell him not to use his laptop in front of the windows. But that day was not today.

            “About the planes,” he started, and Renjun put down his pencil. His chest clenched once, harsh and brief. Reality checks, and all.

            “The paper ones?” he asked, just for the sake of it. There was no easy way to say it, but it wasn’t precisely hard at the same time just—rough. Like ripping off a band aid to find blood pooling underneath. “No.”

            Jeno’s face fell, and Renjun toyed with his pencil to keep from looking at him. “Oh. Can I ask why?”

            “I don’t know you,” he answered, as gently as he could.

“Then get to know me,” he replied, and God, did he even hear the shit coming out of his mouth sometimes?

            “I’d prefer not to,” Renjun lied carefully, and twirled his pencil.

            They were quiet for a few minutes, an awkward silence that seemed to settle between them heavily. Renjun sketched aimlessly, unable to focus on the assignment when—there was no point in thinking about it.

            “Okay,” Jeno said, and he looked up in surprise. He smiled, and the fluorescent light made his face appear profane, like if the Mona Lisa was hung in a convenience store. “I’ll keep trying.”

            Renjun tried very hard to glare at him. Eventually, he just gave up and grimaced down at his paper. Part of him wanted to sit Jeno down, tell him that he was about six and a half months too late and at this point it just fucking hurt. But telling him was impossible for about a hundred reasons, the biggest of them being—just because. There was simply no way that Jeno could ever know, and that was the way it was supposed to be. The second biggest was that if he knew, he might try things, and Renjun didn’t know if he could really handle that on top of everything. College apps were draining enough.

            “Are you done with this?” he asked, for the sake of changing the conversation. He jerked his head down at his own paper. “It’s due next week.”

            Jeno’s eyes widened. “Really?”

            “Yeah, really.”

            He swore, long and nonsensical, and a laugh bubbled to life at the back of Renjun’s throat. Jeno stopped at that, gave a small smile, and he looked back down at his paper, flattened his expression as quick as he could. He was leading him on, and it was just cruel. At the end of the day, he’d get hurt just like he had last year and a few minutes of sadness over being overlooked for the majority of high school wouldn’t even come close to justifying that.

            “I guess I’ll just have to start now,” Jeno said, interrupting his reverie. “Tell me if it’s any good?”

            “Pay me,” he replied, and shaded in a feather.

            “I’m broke,” he said flatly. “Do you like candy?”

            Renjun dropped his pencil to raise his eyebrows at him. “What self-respecting seventeen year old doesn’t like candy?”

            “What kind?” Jeno asked, and if there was a hint of a smile in it, he let it go.

            “Surprise me.”

 

            ...

             

            After class, Jeno left quickly, which was uncharacteristic of him. He thought on it silently while packing up. Maybe he had detention. Maybe he had a date. Renjun couldn’t decide which one made him more uncomfortable.

            “Renjun! Hey, Renjun, could I talk to you for a moment?” Seo’s voice brought him back to the present, and he glanced over at him. He carried a huge stack of paper and questionable other materials in his hands, and though he grinned at him, there were dark circles under his eyes.

            “Yeah?” he said slowly. “Mr. Seo, are you okay?”

            “Crystal,” he replied, with the air of someone who’d had ten Five Hour Energy drinks in the span of a single hour.

            Renjun nodded at his chair. “I think you should take a seat.” Seo hovered for a moment, indecisive, then threw himself into the chair, carefully replacing his stack on the desk. “So,” he said, running his fingers against each other. “What’s up?”

            “It’s about Jeno,” Seo started, and, somewhere in his head, the goblins were at it again. He should’ve dropped this class when he’d had the chance. He swallowed and nodded for him to go on. Seo sighed. “It’s just—You’re generally a very kind, upstanding student, Renjun, and I respect that about you but—With him, even I can see—You know, he’s struggling in this class, he’s really trying his best—Maybe just take it a bit easier on him, help him out a little or even—Not even that, just don’t—”

            “Mr. Seo,” he said, calmer than he felt, the goblins banging pots and pans too loud for him to hear anything else but the sound of the teacher’s voice. “Is there anything you want to say to me?”

            Seo let out a long, rattling sigh, and when he looked up, there was a hint of genuine goodwill in his eyes. It was the only thing that kept Renjun from walking straight out the door and to the nearest underground cave, where he could spend the rest of his days. “Maybe don’t… antagonize him as much?”

            “I will take that into consideration,” Renjun said quietly. At the stricken look on Seo’s face, he spread his hands and smiled quickly, placid without real substance. “Don’t worry, I get it.”

            “Oh, okay,” Seo said, sinking back into the seat. “Thanks for being reasonable about it, not that you aren’t always, it’s just a very sensitive topic and—”

            Renjun tuned out for a moment there, playing with the sleeve of his sweater. He could almost hear his mother’s voice in his head. _Sweetie, that’s cashmere._

            Seo said something final, clapping a hand on Renjun’s back and pulling himself to his feet. Behind him, there was a quiet scuffle, the accidental first few seconds of a cat video, then Seo packing up.

            “I’m turning off the lights, close the door when you leave!” he called. Renjun raised his hand in a noncommittal gesture, and the room went dark.

            On the way home, Renjun called Jaemin. He toed the sidewalk crack of every cement square, jumping from one to the next as if the puerility of it would somehow soothe him.

            “Hey,” Jaemin said, all static and the distant sounds of his siblings play fighting. “What’s wrong?”

            “Nothing’s wrong,” he said too quickly, and looked up at the sky to keep himself from wincing. Puffy clouds, cute fucking puffy clouds. In the distance, the sun was setting, sending streaks of gold and blue across the sky. He checked the street sign in front of him. A couple more blocks. God, he should’ve gotten his fucking driver’s license while he’d had the time.

            “So something’s wrong,” Jaemin replied, matter of fact, and Renjun suddenly, briefly, was consumed with a deep hatred for their three years of friendship. He sighed, and it came out crackly and soft on the edges. “Seriously, just tell me. It’s not like I judge.”

            “…Yeah, you do. You judge a lot. The other day, you told me poodles look like 3D squiggly lines with ugly mouths.”

            “I have small moments of weakness and judgement,” he said, with dignity, and despite it all, Renjun laughed. Pleased, he continued, “And they really do, like, our neighbor has this poodle and it shit all over our front lawn, and I swear to God, I woke up this morning and went out for the paper, and I thought we were like, living in an alternative universe. Where everything 2D becomes 3D and you know, actually, looking back, I think I had this brief moment where I thought I was 2D—”

            “Mr. Seo thinks I’m bullying Jeno,” Renjun blurted and, well. It was farther from the truth to say that it was an elephant in the room, because it implied that the elephant had been there along. This was more like an elephant had commandeered a pickup and crashed right into the room, blaring like, country rock, out of the dead speakers.

            Jaemin was quiet for a moment. Then he asked, “Did he say—did he use the word ‘bully’?”

            Renjun snorted. “It was as close as he could get without accusing me of giving him shit in the locker room. Like… I would’ve known, if he’d meant something different. But he meant that and—yeah.”

            He walked in silence for a block, and on the other side of the phone, the only sound was the Spongebob reruns being blared from the living room. There wasn’t really a simple way to respond to that, so when Jaemin audibly rolled over on his bed and spoke again, Renjun perked up.

            “Do you think you’re bullying him?” he asked, voice lower this time. Loud footsteps followed his words and Renjun shifted his phone in his hands, considering.

            “Honestly?” he said and swung his free hand by his side. “No. If I was bullying him, I’d have to hate him, right?”

            “You wouldn’t have to,” Jaemin said warily, stretching out the letters.

            “I’d have to like,” Renjun paused, thought for a moment. “I’d have to dislike him, I’d have to want to hurt him, at the very least.”

            “I thought you did,” he replied, and Renjun wondered briefly about the repercussions about hanging up so he didn’t have to deal with explaining it all.

            “I don’t,” he said, after a few moments too long. “It doesn’t work like that, it’s just. Complicated.”

            “I see,” Jaemin said, with a juvenile kind of tact. “Do you want lasagna? My mom made extra.”

            Renjun thought of the cereal he was going to have tonight, because his parents hadn’t left enough money for the month. Then of the warm Na family recipe lasagna, and the quiet, but awkward judgement that would come with it. “I’ll pass.”

            “Oh,” he said, with a hint of something unreadable. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

            Down the street, he could make out the outline of his house, well-trimmed hedges against the fences and rotting carnations littering the driveway. “See you.”

 

            …

 

            Monday morning, and nothing had changed. Autumn was coming rushing in, leaves speckled in warmth littering the sidewalk. They were pretty, when they weren’t depressing.

            After carefully pouring himself a tall glass of wine that possibly cost more than his bedroom dresser on Saturday night, Renjun had come to a couple of conclusions on the mess. To be fair, he didn’t remember any of them the morning after, but he knew that at one point in time, he’d thought he knew what he was doing. It was a heartening thought.

            But there was nothing to do but move forward, nothing to do but try his best and pretend like that was enough. He didn’t have presence of mind nor the sleep schedule necessary for thinking shit through.

            So, a couple minutes before dawn, he called admin on the home phone, and affected a pretty accurate impression of his father’s voice. He’d been terrible at it at first, but well. Practice. After a couple minutes of holding a failing conversation with the half asleep desk lady, he managed to get himself put down as sick for the first part of the day. Then he set off for the corner shop right beside the school. 

            _Caffeine,_ he’d said, like that was helpful at all. He snorted at the memory, shifting his bag on his shoulder. He might as well buy him an eight pack of Red Bull and consider it done and over with.

            His phone buzzed and he looked down. In the distance, he could see the trees that framed the side of the school, and the store just a bit further down from it. He squared his shoulders and pulled out his phone.

 

            **jaemin _[7:54 A.M.]:_** dude where the fuck are u

 

            **jaemin _[7:54 A.M.]:_** i know gov is a pain in the ass but u cant just SKIP

 

            **jaemin _[7:55 A.M.]:_** u shldve taken me w u :”( :”(

 

            **renjun _[7:56 A.M.]:_** sorry i know gov is unbearable w/o me just try ur hardest <3

 

            He didn’t usually come here this early in the morning because of school, and when he ducked into the shop, he didn’t recognize the girl standing at the register. The feeling was mutual, and she scrutinized him for a few seconds more before returning to her phone.

            Renjun perused the aisles, awkwardness making his movements stiff. The quicker he could get out of here, the better. Beside the refrigerated drinks, at the back of the store, there was a shelf of energy drinks. A counter a few feet from that boasted hot coffee and tea, and Renjun really wasn’t meant for such important decisions this early in the morning.

            _What would I want in the morning?_ he thought, then promptly realized that he and Jeno’s thought processes were borne of different universes altogether. He heaved another great sigh and scrubbed his eyes with his hands.

            “Hello?” The voice came from behind him, and before he turned to respond, the goblins in his head woke up. _Great,_ he thought. _This can’t possibly get fucking worse._ “Is there anything I can help you with?”

            The worker on shift was—not much older than him, actually. Two years at most. She snapped her gum, and the small name plate that read ‘KIM YE RIM’ on her lapel shone under the lights.

            “I, um,” he said, for lack of a better response. “I’m fine, thank you.”

            She shrugged, and he’d never seen a gesture more laden with disregard. “Suit yourself. But the coffee tastes like piss today, so I’d go with the drinks, we just got a new batch.”

            He blinked at her, speechless for a second, before he said, “Oh. Uh, thank you.”

            Yerim didn’t say anything to that, just turned around and went back to the front. Renjun returned his gaze to the offending racks of energy drinks, and reached out. He felt a package tangle in his fingers and he pulled back, letting out a small huff under the weight. He opened his eyes and examined the drinks. Rockstar. Whatever the fuck that was.

            He paid for it with his card, because he was feeling spiteful. Maybe he’d get an extra lecture in the long run, but he figured it was worth it.

            Renjun texted Jeno after he left, thin plastic bag swinging by his side. They’d exchanged numbers at one point in the past month. When he really thought about it, he couldn’t remember when, but that was probably for the best.

           

            **renjun _[8:07 A.M.]:_** what’s ur 1st period   

 

            **jeno _[8:09 A.M.]:_** who’s asking

 

            **renjun _[8:09 A.M.]:_** me

 

            **jeno _[8:09 A.M.]:_** ….nvm

 

            **jeno _[8:10 A.M.]:_** gov with park

 

            **jeno _[8:10 A.M.]:_** just out of curiosity.. why

 

            **renjun _[8:10 A.M.]:_** you’ll see         

 

            He smiled down at his phone before pocketing it. That seemed suitably ominous. He took the steps in the main building two at a time, heart pounding with the fear of dealing with Jaemin’s questions and the fear of dealing with Jeno’s Jeno-ness and just—fear. But there was a kind of rare energy underlining it all, an optimism that he could never muster, when it mattered.

            Renjun caught Jeno at the lockers outside Park’s room. He knew if he twisted himself right, he’d be able to catch a peek of Jaemin napping inside, but for some reason, the thought only made him sick. Jeno was tapping mournfully at the inside of his locker.

            “Hey,” he said, breathless for some reason, and Jeno looked over in surprise. He didn’t have time to analyze it too much, squinting and looking forward into the locker. Following his attempt, there was a chittering noise. “Is that—alive?”

            Jeno slammed his locker shut and kept it closed with one outstretched hand, offering him one of his winning smiles. It was bright, if a bit strained. “What’s up?”

            The words didn’t come to mind right then, and in place of floundering for them, he just thrust the plastic bag forward and prayed words weren’t necessary. Jeno blinked at him once, surprised in a strange way, some mixture between bemusement and something softer. Then he took the bag and looked in, hefting it in his hand, still considering.

            “Now we’re even,” Renjun said, words too quick out of his mouth for all of the silence that had come before, and the moment he spoke them, he wanted to take them back. Jeno’s face did a complicated thing, hundreds of almost invisible shifts in his expression under the glaringly bright lights.

            “Thanks,” he said, spirited without substance. “I’ll see you in Econ?”

            Renjun nodded, a jerk of his head and nothing more. The bell rang, and he could hear the chatter building from within Park’s class. Jaemin, oh _fuck._ How was he supposed to explain _this?_ He started walking away, a building backwards jog, trying hard to organize his thoughts.

            “Wait!” A shout, loud but cut harshly short, as if he hadn’t registered it until the last possible moment. He looked up; Jeno looked back. He was holding out a can of the energy drink, black and neon with swirling script. Renjun stared at it, uncomprehending, even as students flooded out of Park’s classroom.

            Jeno held it out again, even more insistently. “Take it.”

            “Why?” Renjun caught himself, and added, “It’s a gift to _you,_ why would you give me—”

            Jeno crossed the distance between them quickly, pressing it into his right hand and curling his fingers around it. If there was anything readable in his eyes, any worrying emotion or secret message, Renjun couldn’t read it right then, warning bells ringing and turning the entire scene slightly red. He blew out a breath, a sigh that was jagged on the edges, and replied, “You look like you need it.” Before he could say anything else, he continued, “Free of charge.”

            Renjun pressed his lips together and tightened his fingers around the can. There was no way to get around this. Jeno must’ve mistaken the hesitation in his eyes for distaste, because he added, “I’m sure you can endure the terrible taste of caffeinated drinks for once.”

            Renjun couldn’t help a smile at that. It was a small flickering thing that disappeared in the next second, but Jeno smiled back at it. He held up a hand in farewell, and ducked into Park’s classroom without another word.

            _Park._

            As if on cue, someone tapped on his shoulder. Renjun weighed the pros and cons of not signing in and just skipping the entire day. Before he could reach a conclusion, the tap came again.

            He grudgingly turned around, gaze glued to the floor. When he finally found it in himself to look up, Jaemin was regarding him with mingling smugness and amusement. Renjun opened his mouth to defend himself, but he cut in, “We’re going to be late for Lit.”

            “Lee doesn’t care.”

            “ _I_ care. We have a quiz.”

            Jaemin didn’t really care about the quiz, and Renjun knew this. Once, he’d gone an entire semester of sophomore English without ever turning in his homework. He’d still ended up with an A, somehow. But the devilish glint in his eyes told him that the walk to Lit was the last time he’d feel real peace, and so he flushed and pushed past Jaemin on the way down the hallway.

            And if he laughed a little bit at that, a small giggle that brought a smile to Renjun’s face too, they didn’t talk about it.

 

            …

             

            “Hey! Huang!”

            An overgrown whisper, a shout with a white sheet thrown over it. Renjun blinked, and glanced to his left, caught off guard. He wished he hadn’t.

            Jeno was on the rail of the staircase down to the parking lot, something questionable and smoking hanging out of his right hand. He held up a hand in greeting, put it to his forehead in a salute. Renjun glanced back longingly at the Humanities building.

            “Didn’t peg you as the kind to skip class,” Jeno called, and Jesus Christ, did he have no respect for the sound barrier? Renjun pressed his finger to his lips, looking around frantically. He just laughed and beckoned him over and, against his better judgement, he grudgingly followed. Jeno blew out another mouthful of smoke and Renjun winced. He grinned. “So, what gives? What reason could you possibly have for skipping class?”

            “You don’t know everything about me,” he shot back petulantly. Jeno laughed again, and Renjun looked past him, at a parking lot too deserted for an October afternoon. It didn’t help, for some reason.

            “I don’t,” he agreed, bringing the joint to his lips again. “That’s why I’m asking.”

            Renjun took a deep breath, quickly regretting it, and covered his nose with the sleeve of his hoodie. When he spoke, his voice came out high and nasal. “Came from Women’s Studies. Nakamoto would let me skip class during a thunderstorm if I told him I was applying my skills in the real world.”

            Jeno wrinkled his nose. “He _let_ you skip? Well, that’s disappointing as fuck.”

            “Of course _you’d_ say that,” he muttered, and the other’s face shifted again, an unreadable change in expression.

            “Anyway,” he went on cheerfully. “What applying things do you have in mind?”

            Renjun raised his eyebrows. “I’m going to go home and sleep.”

            Jeno was quiet for a moment before suddenly, loudly, bursting into laughter. He laughed for—it had to be more than five minutes. He laughed so much that in the distance, Renjun could make out the shadows of an approaching teacher, and he tugged Jeno towards the dark, towards an unused storage closet. Once they were safely both in the closet, Renjun locked it with one hand and clapped the other over Jeno’s mouth. The joint still hung loosely out of his hand, smoke slowly filling the room.

            Renjun flicked it out of his fingers and stepped on it, once, twice. Jeno looked down at it sadly, pouting up at him. Muffled by Renjun’s fingers, he said, “My _weed.”_

            Outside, the click clack of high heels became louder and louder. Renjun pressed down harder on his mouth and tried to infuse his glare with as much threatening anger as he could. Jeno seemed to get the hint, deflating slightly as he leaned back against the wall. He cast a despairing look at the floor but said nothing more.

            A pause, and they held their breaths. Then the sound of the heels faded, and after a few minutes more, disappeared altogether. Renjun blew out a long breath, heart pounding against his chest in relief. Jeno tapped against his arm, and when he looked up, waggled his eyebrows in a question. Renjun made a face and pulled his hand from his mouth. Jeno took an exaggeratedly long breath, inhaling and exhaling for what seemed like forever.

            Then he grinned at Renjun. “Well, that was fun.”

            Renjun laughed once, disbelieving, before it tumbled into something longer and louder. He muffled himself against the door of the storage closet, one hand pressed against his mouth and body trembling with the effort of keeping the laugh contained. When it subsided, he pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned back against the door of the closet, chancing a small, considering look at Jeno.

            The other boy had been examining his shoelaces with the intensity of one on the verge of a scientific breakthrough but almost as soon as Renjun looked over, he glanced up. His lips quirked in a crooked grin. “Feel better?”

            Renjun lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Close enough. You need to learn what an inside voice is.”

            Jeno shook his head and toed the corpse of a joint on the floor. “No use. Hey, what time is it?”

            He pulled out his phone; the light was too bright in the dim closet, almost abrasive in its harshness. “Quarter past two. Why?”

            His mouth twisted, and he jerked his head towards the door. “If you aren’t too tired, I know a place. You know, now that you’ve ruined my afternoon plans.”

            “Are you blackmailing me?”

            He grinned. “Depends on your definition of blackmail.” He stretched, and the edge of his hoodie stretched up with him, skin bright in the darkness of the closet. “It’s not like, some underground den of vice or some shit. It’s safe, you’ll be safe.” He grinned, teeth white and eyes shining. “I’d protect you anyway.”

 _He’s high,_ Renjun reminded himself. He offered a dry smile. “My knight in shining armor.”

            “That’s what they call me,” Jeno said, pulling himself to his feet with a small groan. “God, it’s fucking cramped in here.”

            Renjun put a finger to his lips and opened the door carefully, checking both sides before quietly walking back out. He beckoned Jeno out too, and the other boy followed him, slouching where he’d been hunched over in secrecy. Jeno walked back to the rail, but instead of climbing on top of it, just rubbed it once, thoughtful. Then he looked back at Renjun. “So?”

            He pursed his lips. “I’ll pass.”

            His face fell, for a fraction of a second. “Yeah, well, that’s fair. See you tomorrow?”

            Renjun nodded, speaking only after he’d moved past him and was halfway down the stairs, only after he trusted himself to. “See you tomorrow.”

 

            …

 

            Fire drills were the bane of every high schooler’s existence. Or at least Renjun’s.

            In theory, they were amazing. An easy out from class, no strings attached. But in practice, they always seemed to go wrong.

            Last year, a couple of freshmen pulled the fire alarm during lunch every day for two months straight. It was funny, until it wasn’t. If they were going to pull the fucking fire drill, they could’ve had like, the basic common sense to pull it during class. Once, Renjun had had to leave half of his sandwich lying on the table. When he’d gotten back, there were two more bites in it. He preferred not to think of that too much.

            Then again, there was always the time some senior had pulled it during his last final, sophomore year. Finals. It wasn’t even idiocy at that point, just fucking cruelty.

            So when a shrill sound filled the air fifth period, two problems before he finished his Women’s Studies test, Renjun could feel a burning rage begin to build in his chest. Oh, _joy._ He just couldn’t wait to spend the next ten minutes with the rest of his wonderful peers on the football field, packed together like fucking sardines.

            “Everybody, stay calm,” Mr. Nakamoto said, ushering them out of the room. It was wasted on his class, really, but Renjun appreciated the sentiment. He swung his arms beside him as he left the building, observing the roiling mass of students walking to the football field. They could’ve pulled it earlier in the day. At least then, he’d be able to talk to Jaemin. He sighed, and it felt like he’d done it a hundred times before.

            “Psst!”

            Renjun almost didn’t want to turn around, but he did. He was stupid like that, a moth drawn to a flame over and over. He’d always thought he had a good memory, a good sixth sense for avoiding danger. But maybe that didn’t matter, with people like this.

            He turned. Jeno smiled at him. He considered turning back around and continuing towards the field. Instead, he just shook his head. “Want to tell me why you’re hiding behind the library?”

            Jeno grinned, brighter, and dread and anticipation mingled in his chest. “Come with me?”

            “Why,” he started, lowering his voice against the watching gaze of Mr. Lee in the distance. “Would I ditch with you?”

            He shrugged. “You already ditch alone, the more the merrier? And you owe me.”

            Renjun couldn’t help a laugh at that, a disbelieving spluttering mess of a laugh that Jeno smiled at nonetheless. “I—what? I _owe_ you?”

            “You said that you’d pass,” he said smugly, with the air of someone who’d just put together one of those five hundred piece jigsaw puzzles. “That implies that you were planning on coming another time.”

            Renjun pressed his lips together to keep from laughing, then couldn’t help himself and laughed. “I’m pretty sure that’s not how that works.”

            Jeno frowned, and he swore he could see the gears turning in his head. Then he sighed and looked back at him. “Still?”

            “What do you mean, _still?”_

            He rubbed the back of his neck. “Just. Still come with me.”

            Renjun considered listing all the reasons why that was a bad idea, considered rejecting him quickly, considered walking towards the field without another word. “Why?”

            Jeno seemed caught off guard by that, thoughtful in that way he rarely was, brows knit together with concentration that was almost endearing. He bit his lip. “Food?”

            “Good food?”

            “Good food,” he agreed, perking up.

            He blew out a sigh, tried to school his features into something close to sternness. It was hard to pretend he hadn’t already decided, even harder to convince himself otherwise. But he figured the effort counted for something. “I’m guessing I can’t ask where?”

            Jeno grinned. “It’s a secret.”

            He huffed a laugh. “Right, well—Whatever, I guess. If it’s even the slightest bit shady, I will like, cover you in boiling hot wax and—”

            Jeno put up a hand. “I don’t think I want to hear the end of that sentence, actually.”

            “You really don’t.”

            Another smile, smaller and rarer than the first, and then he walked towards the gates. Renjun checked behind him—Mr. Lee had left at one point. He heaved another sigh and followed after him, cursing himself all the way. Impulse control. He needed to find his, and quickly.

            Jeno skipped the entire way there, humming some song under his breath. Renjun struggled not to laugh—he couldn’t carry a tune that well, but he added a certain energy to it, louder than he’d have expected him to be. He reached out, caught a falling leaf in his hand and pulled it apart. Renjun nudged him, shoulders pressed together for half a second, then nodded at the leaf. “You shouldn’t do that.”

            He shrugged. “It’s already dead.”

            Renjun couldn’t think of anything more to say to that, so he asked, “What were you humming?”

            His ears turned red. “I, ah, nothing.”

            He laughed, and teased, “Well, it obviously wasn’t nothing.”

            “Nothing important,” he amended solemnly, even with the flush spreading across his face. “I can’t sing.”

            Renjun didn’t push him, kicking a rock with one sneaker. “Is it one of your favorite songs?”

            Jeno smiled at that, white teeth in his periphery. “Yeah, it is.”

            They didn’t talk for the rest of the walk, and when Jeno caught another leaf and pulled the stem out, Renjun didn’t say anything about it.

            Jeno abruptly stopped when they got there, but Renjun kept walking, and it took him a few seconds to backtrack to where the other was standing. His posture was almost—sheepish, eyes cast down at the pavement and one hand fidgeting with the edge of his t-shirt. Renjun didn’t say anything, only glanced up at the store they were standing in front of. It was an old diner, a small place Renjun had never heard of, much less been to. In the window on the door, a tiny open sign hung, bright neon against the autumn afternoon.

            “Does it have a name?” he asked Jeno, and the other boy seemed to calm a bit, color flooding back into his cheeks.

            “Honestly?” he said, voice bright with laughter. “I don’t even know.”

            Another silence and then: “We should probably go in.”

            “We probably should.”

            Jeno went first, taking the steps up two at a time. He grasped the doorknob loosely in one hand and pulled it open, waiting for the ringing of the bell to subside before calling, “Anyone in?”

            Renjun stood behind him, one hand braced casually against the wooden shutters. Distantly, he heard another voice call back, “Jeno?”

            Jeno grinned back at him and ducked in, beckoning for him to follow. He did, albeit more reluctantly.

            Renjun wasn’t sure what he expected from the diner, but somehow, it managed to adhere exactly to his expectations. It was frightening, but calming at the same time. Striped booths lined the sides, and a bar was built into the opposite wall, stools lining the edge. A half asleep employee was bent over the side, face cupped in one hand. From this far away, Renjun could only see the top half of his apron, an unreadable name written in curly white script. At Renjun’s appearance, though, he blinked and straightened up. He cocked his head at Jeno. “You brought a friend?”

            Jeno nodded and smiled, movements sharp and jittery. “Yeah, um, this is Renjun.”

            The employee, who was, at most, a couple years older than them, raised his eyebrows. “I see.”

            Renjun punched Jeno’s arm, and he looked at him, confused. He hissed. “What does that mean?”

            “Nothing,” the employee answered for him. “Nothing at all. Nice to meet you, I’m Sicheng, by the way. You can just call me Winwin.”

            “Okay,” Renjun said, and when Jeno walked towards the bar, he grudgingly followed him. “Nice to meet you too.”

            Jeno took a seat in one of the stools; Renjun mirrored him, a hundred times more uncomfortable. Sicheng seemed oblivious, or uncaring, and asked, “What can I get you for you boys?”

            Renjun looked over at Jeno, helpless. He said, “Two vanilla… milkshakes?”

            Sicheng nodded once, decisive. “Okay, they’ll be right out.” He opened a door, and screamed, “Two vanilla milkshakes, Jaehyun!”

            Both boys winced. Jeno said, “Did you really have to…”

            Sicheng smiled. “Gotta keep him on his toes with Jungwoo off for the week.”

            Jeno nodded, as if this made sense. Renjun wondered how much shit he’d get for walking out and wandering back home. They all stood in awkward silence for a few minutes more, until Sicheng finally asked, “So… Renjun. Are you a senior, too?”

            “Yeah,” he said slowly.

            “Fascinating,” Sicheng replied, with the voice of someone who hadn’t really been paying attention to his own question.

            Jeno winced in sympathy, and leaned over, voice quiet and breathy against Renjun’s ear. “I promise they’re usually more interesting than this.”

            “I can _hear_ you, Lee Jeno,” Sicheng cut in, and Jeno pulled back, stricken. The door from the back opened, and two milkshakes were held out by trembling arms. Sicheng took them, and the door fell closed.

            “Where is Jungwoo?” Jeno said, after a few minutes more of awkward silence.

            Sicheng snorted. “Getting an education. Loser.” After they blinked at him, twin faces of confusion, he added, “Midterms.”

            They made matching noises of understanding and sipped at their milkshakes. Sicheng looked like he wanted to say something when Renjun had gotten halfway through, but before he could, Renjun’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out, laid it on the counter.

 

            **jaemin _[3:04 P.M.]:_** where r u

 

            **jaemin _[3:04 P.M.]:_** omg wait don’t tell me ur w jeno again

 

 **renjun _[3:05 P.M.]:_** can u shut up

 

 **jaemin _[3:06 P.M.]:_** LMFAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

 

 **jaemin _[3:06 P.M.]:_** i’d leave u to it, i swear, but we have dance today

 

            Renjun swore audibly, and both Sicheng and Jeno looked over in surprise. Jeno blinked at him, eyes impossibly wide and he shook his head. “I have to go, I have dance. Art tomorrow, make sure to finish your project.”

            He sent a quick text back to Jaemin and shoved his phone back in his pocket, pulling his bag onto his shoulder and throwing a last smile at Jeno before leaving. He nodded at Sicheng. “Nice to meet you!”

            He didn’t take the time to think of Jeno’s reaction until he was halfway across town, catching his breath and calming his heartbeat. He probably hated him, flaking midway through. Renjun blew out a tired sigh, kicking at twigs until they didn’t go far enough, kicking at rocks until he tripped over them.

            But by the time he got to the studio, Jaemin still whistling and tapping away at the streetlight pole outside, he’d organized himself into something close to resignation. Jaemin raised his eyebrows at him, but he shook his head, too weary to talk about it now. He shrugged once, an easy gesture, and took his hand, tugging him in.

            He didn’t think about it for the entirety of practice, didn’t think about it until he was home that night, half an apple and a bowl of dry fruit loops balanced carefully on his bed. He stared at them for what seemed like millennia, then flopped back on his bed, the spots in the drywall spinning above him.

            “Fuck fire drills,” he said aloud.

 

            …

 

            Two weeks before homecoming, and the school was a mess. Carefully planned out asks, glitter littering the quad and omnipresent crowds filled with camera phones recording heartfelt moments. In another time, it would’ve been cute. Now, it was just boring, and slightly nauseating.

            Renjun had been caught in the middle of one of the crowds on his way to art, and he was still picking confetti out of his hair by the time class started. He was working on a project due at the end of the month, but for some reason, he couldn’t get himself to focus. After the fifth broken pencil tip, he let it fall against the desk, and tilted his head back.

            Across the room, Jeno’s desk was empty. He blinked at it, upside down, then reoriented himself and tried not to think about it too much. That went about as well as he’d expected.

            The thing was, he’d been there for Econ, cracking jokes and taking naps like always, so this just didn’t make sense. He tapped his broken pencil tip against the white paper, watching the small dots appear and waiting for his heart to slow.

            Time passed, and Jeno didn’t show up. Eventually, he stopped waiting for him too. He’d probably just gone home sick, ditched, maybe. When the door opened, it took a few seconds for him to look up, engrossed in a detail.

            From his seat, he couldn’t see anything clearly, just a hood pulled up high and hands tapping a beat against his jeans. He cut straight across, dropped into the seat opposite Renjun’s and pulled his hood down. His eyes were circled in red, a grin wide on his face even with his gaze miles away.

            Renjun blinked at him, then returned to his drawing, even with the worry pulsing at him. “Are you okay?”

            Jeno nodded once, emphatic but unbalanced, and almost slid out of his chair. Renjun held out a hand to steady him, loose on his shoulder, and he leaned into it. It was more shameless than he usually allowed himself to be, and Renjun pulled his hand back quickly. A few minutes later, without prompting, he said, “That’s a cute bunny.”

            Renjun was drawing a mountain range.

            He sighed deeply, and put down his pencil. He fixed Jeno with a stern look, like that would somehow hide the worry in his eyes. It was useless, really—he wouldn’t notice either way. “Jeno, seriously, are you okay?”

            “I said I was,” he said firmly, childishly. Renjun barely kept himself from sighing again. “I’m just like, a tiny bit—Oh my God, fuck, dude.”

            He blinked at him, caught off guard. “Jeno? What’s wrong?”

            He grinned, and he averted his eyes. “There was a bird behind you. It was like, barking.”

            Pieces began to come together in his head. Something complicated twisted around in his chest, nausea and a hundred other words for discomfort. He bit his lip, brought his hand to Jeno’s cheek, against the hot skin there. The other boy flinched away, caught off guard. His lips formed a little o.

            Renjun said, “Jeno, are you high right now?”

            “As high as a daffodil,” he replied, and Renjun pressed his forehead against the cool faux wood of the desk for a moment, just because he felt like he needed it. He pulled himself out of his chair, pushed it in and went over to Jeno’s side. He looked up at him, questioning. His eyes were impossibly wide, but barely there at all. Renjun pulled up his hood again, and pulled it tight.

            “I can’t breathe,” he mumbled through the fabric, and Renjun opened it up a bit.

            Seo was at his desk for once, making a flower out of macaroni pieces. Renjun tapped at the corner of it, and he glanced up, guilt coloring his gaze. He suppressed a laugh and said, “Jeno’s not feeling well, so I’m going to take him to the office. I’ll be right back, is that okay?”

            Seo nodded, a smile spreading on his face, and Renjun suddenly remembered that afternoon, weeks ago. He probably thought this was him making up for his misdeeds. Bile rose in his throat, but he barely kept it down. Seo gave him a soft, approving look, and Renjun pressed his gaze to the macaroni below. “Yeah, of course. It’s good to see you two getting along.”

            Renjun gave a stiff, sharp nod, and walked back to his desk. Jeno was examining his pencil as if he’d never seen one, smelling the yellow painted wood. Renjun tapped him on the shoulder and he looked up, black fabric and a small hole for his nose. He wrapped his arms around his middle and heaved him up, ignoring the way his heart still sped up, even after months of—whatever.  

            Jeno was saying something, tangled words muffled by black fabric, but he wasn’t struggling against Renjun’s grip, and after they got out into the hallway, he let go. He reached over, loosened his hood and Jeno took a deep breath. He blinked over at Renjun. “Where are we going?”

            He hadn’t thought this far ahead. He drew in a breath, ignored Jeno’s piercing gaze, and asked, “What does your friend Donghyuck have this period?”

            “Hyuck,” Jeno said dreamily, bringing up one hand to wave it through the air aimlessly. “I love Hyuck. Once, when we were kids, he got me this toy car for my birthday. And then I put it in the oven and it died. But he gave it to me!”

            Renjun rubbed his eyes. On the other side of the hallway, Jeno was still staring at him, concentrated and yet barely present. He repeated, calmer this time, “What does your friend, _Lee Donghyuck,_ take as a class at right now? Where is he?”

            Jeno tilted his head. “Hyuckie must be in Trig right now.”

            Oh, _joy_. The last time Renjun had held a conversation with Mr. Kim, he was on the verge of receiving his first detention in his academic career. He sighed again, because there was nothing else to do, and it seemed the easiest nonaggressive way to cope with the hand he’d been dealt.

            He walked down the hallway towards Kim’s class, but Jeno didn’t follow him, even when he held out a hand to beckon him. Renjun made a frustrated sound and stalked back down the hallway, took Jeno’s hand in his and tugged him back towards the stairwell. But Jeno didn’t come easily, struggling slightly and stopping and speeding up erratically. The staircase posed an issue, because if Renjun could barely pull him across a flat surface, tugging him up the stairs was practically impossible.

            He sized the other boy up. There was no way he could possibly carry him. But still, he wrapped his arms around him and tried. And tried. And tried. His perseverance, cultivated carefully after years of student council, was fruitless in the end.

            Jeno snorted, and it quickly turned into a building laugh. A laugh that would get them _noticed, shit._ Renjun dropped him, and he unceremoniously fell to a heap at the base of the wall beside the staircase. He looked up at Renjun through hooded eyes, a grin still pasted to his face. God, did he ever stop smiling?

            “You can’t carry me,” he rasped.

            “I can fucking try,” he replied, hands already outstretched again. Jeno moved out of his reach.

            “I could carry you, probably.”

            Renjun’s face burned. “That’s great. Can you get up?”

            Jeno shook his head, and nuzzled his head into the drywall. Renjun huffed another laugh, disbelief and frustration and hysteria mingling in that one sound. Jeno opened his eyes and blinked at him, uncomprehending in that infuriating way of his.

            “I can carry you to Hyuckie’s class, if you want,” Jeno said.

            “I—” Renjun took a deep breath, palms flat against his cheeks. “I do not want you to fucking carry me to Kim’s class. Just. Get up. Walk up the stairs with me.”

            Surprisingly, he did, using the wall to balance himself at first. After a few seconds of reorienting himself, he tottered forward and latched onto the guard rail for dear life. Renjun wrinkled his nose and took his elbow in his, tugging him up the stairs one step at a time. For once, he wasn’t purposefully difficult. Renjun didn’t take the time to think too hard on this new development.

            On the second floor, they didn’t talk. Jeno had buried his head in Renjun’s t-shirt, and he was too tired to push him off. He was too thankful for his silence. This close, he smelled like peppermint and aftershave. It made him want to laugh, something impossible tugging at the corners of his mouth before he could notice it creeping up.

            Then he realized where he was, what he was doing, and it disappeared of its own accord. Outside Kim’s class, Renjun slowed to a stop. He propped Jeno up against the lockers, wagging his finger sternly, as if it wasn’t shaking slightly. “Be quiet. Don’t say anything, and don’t go anywhere, okay?”

            Jeno brought two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute. “Aye, aye.”

            He sighed and steeled himself, straightened his posture as if that’d give him any confidence. He pressed his palm to both eyes. This was crazy. He opened the door.

            Mr. Kim was mid lesson, blinking at him with wide eyes as he ducked into the classroom. He put a hand on his hip, and every inch of Renjun’s body screamed at him to run. In the corner of the room, Donghyuck looked up from where he was scratching something into his desk. An unsaid question flickered in his eyes, but Renjun turned back to the teacher.

            “Is there a reason for this intrusion, Mr. Huang?” Mr. Kim said, and he bit back a frown. For some reason, he had this small habit of referring to all his students by their surnames for ‘professionality’ purposes. He’d never seen the point.

            Renjun drew in a breath, offered as bright a smile as he had in his arsenal. It was his student body president smile, the one he whipped out before he went to tell the principal they needed more funds. “I need to borrow Donghyuck for the rest of the afternoon, sorry.”

            Mr. Kim’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. “Can I ask why?”

            “Leadership business,” he lied easily. “Donghyuck agreed to give us his feedback on how we’re running the program, you know, for development purposes.”

            Mr. Kim blinked, skepticism still written plain on his face. “Well, I’ll anticipate the results of his work. Mr. Lee, I’ll see you next class.”

            Donghyuck moved his hand from where it was loosely covering the graffiti on his desk and dragged his backpack from the floor. He kept his gaze on Renjun, though, confusion bright on his face. Renjun smiled and jerked his head just slightly towards the door. He hoped the other boy understood telepathy. _Later._

He must’ve, because he nodded and followed him out of the class. Even before they’d left, Mr. Kim had resumed the lesson.

            The moment the door closed behind them, Donghyuck raised his eyebrows. “So, why did you really call me out?”

            In response, Renjun just took his hand and tugged him further out into the hallway. Jeno was still leaned against the lockers beside the classroom, eyes fluttered closed. His chest rose and fell steadily.

            “Jeno?” Donghyuck asked, worry winding its way through his voice. Renjun blew out a breath of relief. At his voice, Jeno opened his eyes, and waved excitedly at Donghyuck.

            “Hi, buddy!”

            Donghyuck blinked, understanding beginning to tinge his gaze. Renjun cleared his throat. “This is why.”

            He cast a hard gaze at Renjun, sharp without real malice. “You could’ve dealt with it on your own. He’s been like this before.”

            There were a hundred ways Renjun could reply to that, including the truth. But each one was more painful than the last, each one gave up something that he wasn’t willing to divulge. So he just said, “He tried to eat my art project.”

            Donghyuck snorted. “Really?”

            He gave a small, artificial smile. “Yeah. Anyway, I thought you’d deal with it—I don’t know. Better. I don’t have the time to, anyway.”

            That was truer than before, and if he was alone in the hallway, he might’ve given himself a pat on the back. Donghyuck looked at him, considering, then back at Jeno, lost in a world of his own.

            “Okay, yeah,” Donghyuck said, all in one breath. He passed a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes. “Thanks for getting me.”

            Renjun nodded, unwilling to say anything more. Finally, he coughed and said, “Take him home, I told Seo he’d be out for the rest of today.”

            Donghyuck nodded. “That’s fair.”

            They didn’t say anything else for a second, and Renjun tilted his head in acknowledgement before turning to walk back to art. It came after a few seconds, still hesitant in timbre. “Wait, Renjun.”

            He looked back, at where he held Jeno in both arms, skin intertwined with the black fabric. Donghyuck bit his lip, wavering. It felt all wrong somehow, the stagnant air of the hallway not made for what he was about to say, so shrouded in gentle warning.

             “Jeno doesn’t…” he broke off, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand extricated from the mess. He took a deep breath and continued, “Jeno doesn’t do this often, and he, um. He likes you.”

            _He likes you,_ said like it was a truth instead of an excuse for one. Renjun intertwined his fingers and then let them go. When he spoke, his voice was just barely unbalanced, but Donghyuck didn’t notice. “Why are you telling me this?”

            The other boy fixed him with—there was no way to describe it except to call it the warm threat of a mama bear. “If you’re going to break his heart,” he said, “Do it kindly.”

            A bitter retort surfaced on the tip of his tongue, but he suddenly felt too tired for this conversation, as if he’d aged a hundred years in three minutes. He drew in a rattling breath, let it go, and said, “I’ll see you later.”

            It was only slightly hard on the edges, and he felt unduly proud of himself for that. Before Donghyuck could say anything else, he turned around and walked towards art.

            He didn’t think he inhaled properly until he fell back into his chair. Renjun eyed his broken pencil, propped up by an eraser worn thin. He looked down at the mountain range, and almost laughed, then. But he just exhaled, blew out like that would untangle all the things tying together in some huge unintelligible mass in his chest.

            It didn’t.

 

            …

 

            Dance went too slow that day, a century trapped in every moment. So he danced harder, to compensate, and maybe that was a terrible idea, but he didn’t care. Jaemin eyed him all of practice, insistently gesturing for him to come over, but he didn’t. Any conversation he meant to have, anything he needed to say, could wait for tomorrow. He’d used up all of his bullshit tolerance for the rest of the day, and he had only enough energy left to go home and curl up into a ball.

            Right after practice ended, he changed and left. It was a stroke of good luck, really, that Jaemin changed so slowly. By the time he’d finished, Renjun was probably streets away, with his phone shut off and deep in his bag. He walked with a purpose, with an intensity he didn’t quite feel, and didn’t stop until he was outside of his house.

            The call came at eight. Renjun had made himself tea and pulled out his Calculus homework and wrapped himself in his blankets. It was a cross between a blanket nest and a cotton burrito, just enough space so that he could breathe without feeling empty inside. It was calming, untethering, being wrapped up so tight all he could see was the integrals on his paper and his own hand. He looked up when it came, then let it go to voicemail. It was probably just Jaemin, worrying over something minor.

            He scratched out the answer to the problem and began work on the next one. His phone rang again. He laughed, but it was a flat sound, and he stopped quickly. He frowned at the paper, then at his phone. He let that call go to voicemail too.

            On the third call, Renjun figured there was no getting out of answering. The longer he let this go on, the more worried Jaemin would get, and eventually he’d take it upon himself to come over. The idea of him seeing him all blanketed and dead to the world made him wince.

            He slowly extricated himself from the mass of blankets, fighting a frown at the cold air of his bedroom. He was going to have some strong words with Jaemin about timing his phone calls right.

            Renjun shot his phone a dirty look, then brought it to his ear. “Hello?”

            “Renjun?” Jaemin’s voice was just barely audible. Shouts and noises crowded the background.

            “Yeah, it’s me,” Renjun said.

            “What? I can’t hear you!”

            “It’s me,” he shouted into the phone. “Renjun.”

            “Oh, Renjun,” Jaemin half yelled back. “Can you come to the pizza place on Hartford?”

            Renjun eyed his blanket nest. “What’s the priority level?”

            Silence, or as much silence as there could possibly be, and then: “Seven?”

            He wrinkled his nose. “A _seven?”_

            “Yeah,” Jaemin shouted. “Please come, it’s important, I’ll like, get you ice cream later!”

            Jaemin never offered to buy him well, anything. The entire situation was intriguing, if a bit frightening. But curiosity won out, and he replied, “I’ll be over in a bit.”

            “Thanks, see you then!” Jaemin called back, and then he hung up. The room was suddenly so much quieter, and the absence of sound almost unnerved him.

            He took a second to fall forward on his bed, a face full of blanket. To his mattress, he said, “This is a terrible idea.”

           

            …

 

            There were a couple things Renjun expected from this, because he trusted Jaemin, and Jaemin was usually a fairly genuine guy. He’d expected it to be quick, to be informal, and to be cozy. He was proven wrong on all three fronts.

            Because of these expectations, though, he hadn’t taken the time to look in the mirror before he’d left. He hadn’t even run a comb through his hair, and he was pretty sure it sat in a tangled mess on his head. He’d just pulled a hoodie over his t-shirt and put on some old sweat pants. He was pretty sure his eyes were red from all the rubbing, and he had a pimple on his jaw. Put simply, he was not looking his best. This was a version of him he reserved for very little people; Jaemin, Chenle, and on bad days, the staff of whatever place they were frequenting.

            And all this weariness, all this _trust,_ had led him to not think the entire ordeal through. On another day, he would’ve maybe looked in the reflection of the door before opening it. On another day, he would’ve maybe stayed at home. On another day, he would’ve maybe thought about why Jaemin ranked this a seven.

            Today, he just pushed the door open, with so much force that he almost fell through. Across the restaurant, a huge table housed a bunch of people he couldn’t make out from here. He squinted—he could make out… Jaemin, at least. He pinched the bridge of his nose and walked over, thanking God that it seemed relatively empty tonight.

            Jaemin carefully made his way out of the clump of people at the booth, leaned against the side of it by the time Renjun arrived. He said, “Please don’t be angry with me.”

            His heart skipped a beat. His heart tore out of his chest and ran back to his house. He closed his eyes, took a deep, rattling breath, and said, “What does that mean?”

            Jaemin didn’t say anything. Renjun opened his eyes, and a movement in his periphery caught his eye, a hand reaching out for another slice of pizza. He moved to the right, so that he could take in the entire table.

            Behind Jaemin, Chenle was on the edge of the table. A younger boy, around his age maybe, was sandwiched in beside him. After that, there was a boy who’d graduated last year. Mark? Donghyuck was beside Mark, an arm snaked around his waist. On the other edge of the booth, there was Yukhei, elbows down on the table and face frozen in mirth. Between Yukhei and Donghyuck, there was—

            Renjun took a deep breath. Then he took another one.  And another. And another, and maybe now it was closer to hyperventilating than proper breathing patterns, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

            He drew in a breath, pressed a hand to his chest like that’d help at all. Across the table, Jeno glanced up, as if on cue. His eyes widened, lips parted slightly. Guilt colored his gaze, guilt and a million other emotions strewn across his expression that Renjun couldn’t quite read with his heart in his throat. Jeno swallowed hard, a flush spreading across his face with every passing second.

            Renjun forced himself to look away, first at the shining tile, then back at Jaemin. He spoke quickly, voice low and words tangled together. “What the fuck? Actually, wait, no, _why_ the fuck? You said this was a seven, how could this possibly be a fucking seven?”

            Jaemin folded his arms, but his expression was unsure. “Hyuck and I are friends, he told me what happened. I came over yesterday, you know. You’re out of cereal, and I _knew_ you wouldn’t ask me for anything if you really needed it, and I just. It’s just a meal, you two don’t have to like, talk or anything—”

            Renjun passed a hand over his face, overwhelmed and amused and fed up with it all. “This is—a new level of bullshit. Astronomic levels of asshole.”

            “I know,” Jaemin said, apologetic, and despite it all, Renjun couldn’t find it in himself to be angry at him. “I know, and I’m sorry, just. I saved a slice of Hawaiian for you.”

            He pressed his lips together to keep from laughing, but it came out anyway, a spluttering giggle that he muffled with the back of his hand. Jaemin smiled at that, but he shook his head, dropped his hand by his side. “Whatever, I really—whatever. Tell Chenle to scoot the fuck over.”

            And he did, and Chenle made a face but nudged his new friend to the side, which sent the rest of them off to the side too. Jaemin went in first, then Renjun, because if he had a choice between being a certain distance from Lee Jeno, and a further distance from Lee Jeno, his answer was obvious.

            And Lee Jeno, well, he was—being difficult. In that way only he could be difficult, sending glances over when he thought Renjun wasn’t looking. Concerned glances, guilty ones, scrutinizing ones and pining ones. He probably spanned the entire emotional spectrum of the average seventeen year old with those glances, a thousand brief looks over a rapidly deteriorating platter of pizza.

            Jaemin was telling the truth, for once, when he was talking about the pizza. He’d saved him a slice of Hawaiian, and it was a loaded one too. The pineapple and crust were possibly the only thing keeping him seated, the only thing keeping from going back on his word and sprinting back home.

            Apart from the initial awkwardness and the Jeno, the evening went pretty well. Chenle was warm and endearingly annoying, and Jaemin was more handsy than usual. Under normal circumstances, it would’ve been irritating, but today it was something close to comforting. The rest of them didn’t ask about his eyes, about his pimple and about the bird’s nest on his head. The closest it got was Donghyuck raising an eyebrow at him and mouthing, _Did you get home alright?_ He just nodded, offered a watery smile and covered the rest of his face with his pizza.

            After finishing his slice and nibbling at his garlic bread for what seemed like forward, he slipped out of the booth. Jaemin tapped at his forearm and he whispered, “Bathroom.”         

            He nodded in acquiescence and Renjun ducked into the low hallway. The bathroom was at the end, and the area near it smelled faintly of grease and Lysol. There was a quiet flushing sound from within, and then the tap running. When the door opened, he moved forward and then stopped abruptly. Jeno stopped too, frozen in the doorway with his hands dripping by his side.

            Jeno shifted uncomfortably. “Um. Hi?”

            Renjun bit his lip, and moved to push past him, but Jeno stopped him, one still damp hand braced on his shoulder. Quietly, he said, “Wait, stop, Renjun.”

            “What?” he asked, and it was a bit wearier than he’d meant it to come out, a bit more worn at the edges.

            Jeno worried at his lip. “Sorry for like—everything.”

            He snorted. “That’s specific.”

            The other boy sighed and spread his hands, frustration leaking into his voice. “You know what I mean.”

            “Do I?” he asked, because he was still half asleep, and none of Jeno’s words were really registering.

            “Sorry for—” he cut off and took a deep breath. When he next spoke, all his words ran together, an apology in ten seconds. “For coming to class high, and for trying to eat your art project, and for being inappropriate because I don’t remember anything, but like, knowing myself, I probably crossed some boundaries—”

            “Jeno.”

            “And for being me and for making you get Hyuck, because I must’ve been pretty fucking high for you to get outside help, like—” he laughed once, self-deprecating, and continued, “Sorry for being a mess, and sorry for making you clean it up is what I’m trying to say. I think. Like, really, out of all the people for me to—”

            “Jeno—"

            “I should’ve picked better, seriously, I shouldn’t even have come to class, I should’ve gone home or gone to the park or just slept in the closet until class ended or something. God, wow, that was just dumb thinking on my part, not that I ever have any other kind of thinking—”

            Renjun reached over and put a hand over his mouth. Jeno blinked at him, eyes very wide and slightly afraid. He sighed and removed the hand, wiping it on his sweatpants. He said, impossibly weary, “It’s fine, really. You’re fine, don’t worry about it.”

            Jeno didn’t seem to believe him, so he added, “If you apologize one more time, I’ll actually be pissed. Grr.”

            The sound effects must’ve been too much because he cracked a smile, or a facsimile of one, and rocked back on his heels. He drew a breath in, bit his lip, then said, “Okay, I mean. If you say so.”

            “I do say so.”

            Jeno nodded once, briefly, as if in acknowledgement of that, then jerked his head back down the hallway. “I’ll just get going, then—”

            Renjun exhaled, an unbalanced kind of laugh. “Yeah, go ahead.”

            He smiled again and jogged back down the corridor, leaving Renjun with the open bathroom door, the Lysol and the grease. He wondered, absentmindedly, what it would take to just stay here forever, so he wouldn’t have to go back out and function. He pushed the thought away. There was no point, really. All he could do was push through this night and think of the blanket nest waiting for him at home.

            When he sneezed three too many times in the bathroom, he didn’t think too hard about it. He probably should’ve.

           

            …

 

            Renjun didn’t really remember the point in time at which he’d suddenly realized that he was sick. After Jeno’s apology, that night was a black hole, and his memory picked up the morning after, with a throat full of cotton and a body lit on fire.

            Being sick was only fun when you had someone to take care of you, and Jaemin and Chenle could only do so much between themselves. They only found out at the end of the first day, after he managed to pull himself out of bed and shuffle to the other side of the room to send a text. Promptly after said text, he’d shuffled back to his bed and fallen asleep for another sixteen hours. It was a good system.

            At any rate, between the cough syrup and old water bottles and used tissues littering the sides of his bed and, of course, his day long naps, Renjun didn’t have the time to overthink as much as he was used to. It was a welcome break from the daily routine even if, you know, it came with wanting to puke his guts out every thirty minutes.

            The knock came at his window on the third day. It was less a knock and more a volley of pebbles aimed carefully at his window. He twisted around in bed futilely before finally managing to get a good view of his driveway. Jaemin waved at him amiably, two grocery bags under one arm. He bit back a smile at the predictability, then pointed to the right, towards where his door was supposed to be. Jaemin nodded and Renjun, not without complaint, pulled himself out of bed and down the stairs.

            The bell rang, and he became almost acutely aware of how empty the house was. The noise echoed, and he felt a pang in his chest. He frowned, pulled the door open without thinking about it anymore.

            Jaemin smiled and held up the bags. “I’m going to go out on a limb and say you haven’t had anything but like, Gushers for the past three days.”

            Renjun sniffed. “Scooby Snacks, but nice try.”

            The other boy shook his head in disdain, but his eyes were bright. He tilted his head forward, and Renjun stepped to the side to let him in.

            “Wow,” he said, clapping his hands together after he placed the bags on the dining table. “I know I say this all the time, but this place really sucks.”

            He snorted. “You’re right, at least. What’s in the bags?”

            Jaemin waggled his eyebrows and pulled out thermos after thermos. He pointed at them in turn. “My mom’s chicken noodle soup, Chenle’s mom’s chicken noodle soup, Walmart chicken noodle soup, the convenience store gave us some chicken noodle soup for free, because they like you, and um.” He cut off, suddenly, and brought another thermos out of his bag. This one had a small note attached. Jaemin sighed deeply and handed the thermos to him.

            Renjun accepted it, eyebrow arched, and pulled off the note. Jaemin continued speaking as he read it. “You know, I was really, _completely_ , ready to join you aboard the Hate Lee Jeno train, destination: graduation. But like.” He frowned at Renjun, a thoughtful look. “Listen, I’m literally the last person to speak on something like this, but this isn’t some half assed shit. It’s _soup.”_

            He didn’t say anything to that, only read the letter again. It was brief, _Get well soon!!!!!_ accompanied by a string of potato smileys. Renjun felt a consuming desire to crawl back upstairs and into bed. He was too tired to deal with potato smileys.

            “Renjun?” Jaemin asked, and he sighed, tapped the chair in front of him. Jaemin reluctantly fell into it, and Renjun took a seat beside him.

            He opened the first thermos of soup, Jaemin’s mom’s, and took a long, considering sip. He made a noise that could only be described as ecstatic, then closed the thermos and turned to Jaemin, gave him a grave look. “It’s like… he doesn’t actually like me. It’s a crush of circumstance, of convenience. He’s stuck in that classroom, and he has nothing better to do than badly flirt with me. And I’ve resigned myself to that fate.”

            Jaemin considered this, then said, “Okay, that’s fair. But what if it isn’t?”

            Renjun snorted. “Jaemin, he didn’t even know I existed until this year. I’m pretty sure if this was anything more than just a passing crush, he’d have noticed me before September. Like seriously. I gave him half my school supplies freshman year.”

            The other boy sighed. “Well.”

            Renjun nodded in agreement, and took another sip of soup. He shrugged. “I’m just happy it happened this year, since I’m over him and all. God knows what would’ve happened if I’d had to deal with this last year.”

            They both winced in remembrance. Renjun finished the first thermos and moved onto the second as Jaemin said, “Even if it’s… like that. You should probably tell him. Nip it at the bud.”

            Renjun laughed once, brief and harsh. “I’m trying, he’s just—” he made a small gesture of frustration. “Lee Jeno-y. I could murder a man and he’d ask me where to check for his pulse.”        

            Jaemin shrugged, and nudged Jeno’s thermos towards him. “Still. Drink the soup.”

            Renjun rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I will. Tell him thanks, if you see him.”

            He wrinkled his nose. “I’ll tell Hyuck to tell him, that’ll go quicker. Do you need any help around here?”

            “I’m fine,” he said through a mouthful of noodle, and Jaemin snorted.

            “I have to babysit, so I’ll ask Chenle to come over. Think you can stay by yourself for an hour more?”

            Renjun gave him a thumbs up without looking up from his soup, and he scoffed. He left soon after that, after writing up a huge grocery list and a separate list for Chenle on ‘How to Take Care of a Sick Renjun’ which was pretty useless, since Chenle had done it before.

            It was uncomfortably close to being babysat, really, but he thought he deserved a little coddling, now and then. Pity it came like this, though.

            The end came sooner than he liked, a morning filled with the darkness of the sky before dawn instead of bouts of coughing and sunlight streaming in. He took a few moments to wallow in self pity about going back to school before realizing. Today was an even day.

            At least he had one and a half periods to prepare himself. That had to count for something.

 

            …

 

            Jeno didn’t ask him about it that day, didn’t ask him until the day before. The day he came back, he gave him a brief hug, something warm and unexpected but not unwelcome. Nausea stirred in his stomach at it, Jaemin’s words bright in his head.

            The day it happened, Renjun was drawing, as always. Jeno was across the table on his phone, as always, his finished project for the month in the corner of the table. For once, he’d finished before Renjun had, and he couldn’t truthfully say that he wasn’t a little bit bitter.

            “Renjun,” he said, voice a bit higher than usually, a bit harder to read. He looked up, blinked at him. Jeno looked away, uncharacteristic, and blushed.

            “Yeah?” he asked warily.

            He took a deep breath, and let it go, then repeated the process a couple times. Then he asked, “Will you go to homecoming with me?”

            In hindsight, there was nothing that could’ve prepared him for that moment, for the floor disappearing under his feet and all his possible responses dissolving in his hands. What was he supposed to _say_ to that, except yes? But that was the one thing he couldn’t say, and rejection had never been easy to word.

            His silence was answer enough, and watching understanding bloom across Jeno’s face, slowly at first and then quicker with every following moment, was more painful than anything he could’ve imagined. He swallowed hard and opened his mouth because he had to say _something._ Something had to be better than this, even if it was pretty fucking close.

            Renjun said, “I, um. I’m not going.”

            Jeno blinked. “What?”

            “I, uh,” he said, coughing into his elbow and trying fruitlessly to come up with an excuse. “It’s my grandma’s birthday that day, can’t miss it. Once I skipped to go to homecoming, freshman year. Wasn’t worth it really, my grandma throws better parties in her basement.”

            Jeno laughed, and hid it behind his hand. He took a few seconds to school his features into something placid and unreadable and said, “Sounds fun.”

            “It is,” Renjun agreed, smiling despite it all. The goblins were at it again. _End it, just end it, stop leading him on and stop hurting yourself—_ “Anyway, sorry. I’m sure you’ll find someone else to go with.”

            “Yeah, they’re all just lining up,” he said drily.

            “Mm,” Renjun said, adding, “Thanks for the express pass.”

            “Any time,” Jeno replied, already faraway. Renjun wondered what it would take to keep him here, keep him grounded. The bell rang, and his thoughts were cut short. He kept himself from glaring up at the clock, just barely.

            “Have fun at homecoming, though,” he said, a moment too late to be casual, and Jeno looked over, surprised.

            Then he smiled, bright and brief, before pulling his bag onto his shoulder. “Thanks. Have fun with your grandma.”

            Renjun blew out a breath when he’d left. His grandma had died last April but well. Details.

            He pulled out his phone, his other hand tapping a restless beat against the surface of his desk.

           

            **renjun _[2:57 P.M.]:_** are u free today

 

 **jaemin _[2:59 P.M.]:_** yeah

 

 **jaemin _[2:59 P.M.]:_** did jeno do smth

 

 **renjun _[2:59 P.M.]:_** no

 

 **renjun _[3:00 P.M.]:_** kind of

 

 **jaemin _[3:01 P.M.]:_** …i’ll meet u at the gates

 

            Renjun ducked out of the classroom before Seo could notice his presence in the first place. They were on better terms these days, after the latter had come to realize that he wasn’t bullying Jeno. Or maybe he just thought he’d stopped. Either way.

            In the hallway, a crowd was forming, shouts and cooing noises mingling. Renjun stood on his toes and caught a slice of a poster. A homecoming ask. He turned the other way and took the long way to the front and pretended like he didn’t feel sick to his stomach.

            After all, this would all die down soon enough. He just had to be patient.

            Something hit the back of his head, and he pulled out a handful of confetti. Behind him, the hallway was a mess of people, and it was near impossible to distinguish who’d hit him. He settled for clenching the confetti in his hand and letting it fall to the ground.

            Him, patient. Yeah, this was going to go great.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls pls PLS leave a comment/kudos if u have the time!! find me on twt @ [hwanguIt](https://twitter.com/hwanguIt) and on curiouscat @ [chuuist](https://curiouscat.me/chuuist)


	3. only on weekends we feel the same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talking with Jeno was like picking petals off of a flower; color, and the absence of it, over and over until there was nothing left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is... a VERY heavy chapter so PLEASE PLEASE NOTE THE WARNINGS!!  
> \- graphic underage alcohol use from "a bit turned out" to "it was cold outside", characters are intoxicated up to "what had passed"  
> \- brief mentions of recreational drug use (fairly brief and vague but still there)  
> \- descriptions of anxiety attacks at "his heart was too big" up to "jeno closed the window carefully" as well as at "it was tuesday" up to "he laughed, short and high"  
> \- mentions of abuse, vague ones all over the chapter but a fairly explicit one between "jeno awoke" to "when they got there"  
> \- playlist [here!!](https://open.spotify.com/user/varsh-bear/playlist/6bcBye6U2CdJ6hLV1smNv7?si=LXzhyBOxT5iJsru1nXoUuQ)  
> \- chapter title from weekends by amy shark (this is so jo's fault i can't even explain it anymore, btw i swear i'm not closet australian)  
> \- can't even begin to explain how much i love comments and cc asks there's a genuine correlation between them and how motivated i am to write so THANK YOU !!! ALL OF U !!! EVERY SINGLE COMMENT !!!  
> \- enjoy it? it's about the same size as last chapter bc i made Mistakes but i hope yall like it :D

            November came like this: Jeno tried to fall out of love with Renjun, failed, and life went on.

            He told the others about the homecoming ask fiasco at the diner that day, head pulled so far down that his nose almost brushed the surface of his milkshake. Quietly, he mumbled, “And that’s it, that’s the story.”

            Silence, and then Yukhei said, “Stop me if I’m wrong, but he didn’t exactly reject you, right? Just said he had something else to do that day?”

            Donghyuck laughed. “He was lying, dude. That’s why Jeno’s crying into his shake.”

            Jeno pressed the heels of his palms to his face and blew out a sigh. “At least he was nice about it.”

            A quarter of the light bulbs were out because, apparently, there were undisclosed maintenance issues, and halfway through the quiet, one fizzled sadly. Jeno tried not to read too far into it and took another stuttering sip of his milkshake.

            “So what happens now?” Jisung asked eagerly, as if his brother hadn’t just gotten painfully rejected and this was the next installment of a serial drama on television.

            “I try to stop liking him,” Jeno replied, but it came out half a question, half a confession.

            “Who? Renjun?” Jungwoo asked, placing a precariously tall basket of fries on the edge of the table. They gave a jerky, unsynchronized group nod, and he made a thoughtful sound. “Sicheng said he seemed nice. Are you sure?”

            Jeno nudged his milkshake to the side and put his face in his hands. He mumbled, “I’m sure.”

            Nobody said anything for a moment, and Jeno blew out another sigh. He could almost _feel_ how little everyone believed in him succeeding, and maybe it was just a little bit justified. Hell, that little voice in his head was still reclined on that fucking chair, one hundred percent convinced that getting out of this crush had just about the same success rate as like, him getting an A in Trig.

            Jeno pulled himself off the table, tried to smile to diffuse the tension. But it was a wry twist of his mouth, neutral at best. He said, “Whatever, there’s no point in trying to analyze why I’m going to fail. Does anyone here know polar coordinates?”

            And, of course, there were downsides to being friends with complete idiots. They stared at him blankly, and Jeno had a premonition of his future that night, 2 A.M. with his last trustworthy friend, Khan Academy.

 

…

 

            Jeno gave up a couple days later, because he didn’t have the attention span to commit himself to saving sinking boats.

            Mark worked at the Walmart on Elm, a couple blocks from the school but almost across the town from Jeno’s place. It was a win-win, as far as he was concerned, so he usually went over and bugged him during work if they weren’t going to the park.

            The only downside was that Mark didn’t let them smoke when he was on shift because ‘ _I want to keep this fucking job’_ and all that. Jeno figured he deserved it, after everything he’d done, so he stayed sober when he was over.

            Today, it was no different; leaves coming down outside as Donghyuck emptied half a package of Nerds into his mouth. He put a couple of coins on the counter, an afterthought, and crunched.

            “Is there any school drama to update me on?” Mark asked, drumming his fingers against the edge of the counter. “God, I miss when teachers pining after each other and not grading assignments right was like, the biggest thing I had to worry about.”

            “None,” Donghyuck said around a mouthful of Nerds. He made a face from either his next words or the taste, and continued, “Unless you count Jeno.”

            Mark glanced at him, eyes wide. “I thought you were over him.”

            Jeno opened his mouth to defend himself, then closed it. He heaved a sigh and perched himself on the conveyor belt and toyed with the checkout dividers to avoid saying anything. He looked up; Mark looked back. He could see dead ends coming up in front of him, and rubbed at his temples to keep his headache from building anymore.

            He said, “I tried, you know.”

            Donghyuck made a sympathetic clucking sound, and for once, there was half the amount of mockery in his voice as usual. “The effort’s what counts. Except, not really, but whatever. Anyway, what happened? Did you make a list of his worst character traits and find it lacking?”

            Jeno glared over at him. “It’s not—that’s not—” he made a frustrated noise and pitched himself forward, drew his knees up in the same movement. Muffled, he said, “It doesn’t matter that he has some bad traits and shit, it’s like. One, he’s really cute. And two, despite it all, he’s really nice. And my brain just won’t stop fucking fixating on—”

            He broke off and pushed his face into his jeans. There was a rip on his knee that hadn’t been there before and, right then, he found himself unwilling to deal with it.

            Mark and Donghyuck were quiet for a moment, a companionable silence that Jeno was grateful for up until the moment it became awkward. He pulled his head up and fidgeted with the loose threads around the rip. Finally, he muttered, “It doesn’t matter, like, I’m just going to like him till graduation, and then we’ll never see each other again, and I’ll still like him. ‘Cause I’m stupid as shit. I’ll deal.”

            Donghyuck crunched the remainder of the Nerds and called, “Do you want a hug?”

            Jeno considered this and lowered his legs. “Yes.”

            Hyuck hugs, as he’d come to call them, were like, genuine medicine. Jeno was convinced he took baths in some kind of medicinal soothing herb shit and then just went around, hugging people until he inadvertently led to world peace. Muffled by the thin fabric of Donghyuck’s flannel, he said, “This sucks.”

            Donghyuck patted his back. “If you want me to, I’ll beat him up.”

            Jeno extricated himself from the hug and regarded him through hooded eyes. “You wouldn’t. Scratch that, you couldn’t.”

            He reached forward, patted his back again. “The effort’s what counts.”  

            “You know,” Mark spoke up. They glanced at him, but he just shook his head. “Never mind.”

            In the distance, a toddler was screaming bloody murder. They all winced, and then Donghyuck said, “What?”

            “I said, never mind,” Mark mumbled, shoving a handful of coins into the cash register before pulling a Milky Way off the display behind Jeno’s back. He took a bite, then another, chewed thoughtfully before speaking again. “Jaehyun’s having a party, is all, and I was thinking—”

            Donghyuck put up a hand. “That’s it, that’s all I need to hear. It’s actually kind of funny, you started the sentence with ‘Jaehyun’s having a party’ and expected us to want to hear the rest.”

            Mark frowned around his chocolate bar. “Well, for one, I already said never mind, and you wanted me to continue. And doesn’t Jeno get to decide for himself whether he wants to hear the rest of it?”

            They both looked at Jeno, and he peered at them over the top of his knees, which he’d pulled up again. Gears were turning in his head, slow but sure, and really, the only thing he could register was a deep sense of dissatisfaction.

            Donghyuck scoffed. “Jeno has the rational thinking of a banana slug on a _good_ day. We’re not going. It’s not even like he wants to go—”

            “Hyuck,” Jeno said, almost inaudible around the fraying denim. He stopped, looked over at him in surprise. He hugged his knees closer to his chest. “I’ll go.”

            Donghyuck frowned. “Listen, if this is to get back at me for comparing you to a banana slug or something, I’m sorry and I have a great amount of respect for your last brain cell, I just don’t think that this is a good idea right now—"

            “It’s not,” Jeno said. “I mean, kinda, but—” he sighed again. “I don’t know. I’ll just hear the rest of it.”

            He looked over at Mark, halfway through the Milky Way with no sign of stopping any time soon. He stopped when he realized they were watching him, carefully wiped caramel from the corner of his lip and cleared his throat. “I was thinking that it could be a good way to get your mind off Renjun. Like, at the very least, there’s free drinks?”

            Donghyuck opened his mouth and Jeno could almost see the steam coming out of his ears. Then he pressed his lips together very tight and breathed in and out through his nose. Finally, he said, “Mark’s right.”

            “Really?” Mark said.

            He snorted. “Yeah, really, just. Don’t make any choices you’re going to regret in the morning, if you’re going. I mean, obviously, I’m coming too, since neither of you are capable of the common sense that you’d need to stay safe at these things, but. Can’t keep my eyes on both of you all the time, so be careful.”

            Jeno managed a small smile and punched Donghyuck’s shoulder. “Softie.”

            Donghyuck made a shocked, offended noise, and pointed at Jeno, glancing over at Mark. “Did you hear what he just called me?”

            Mark smiled and put the rest of the bar in his mouth. Around the chocolate, he replied, “He’s right, honey bunches.”

            He wrinkled his nose. “Gross, both of you are so fucking gross.” He looked over at Jeno, and when he spoke next, his voice was a bit softer. “Are you going, Jeno?”

            Jeno blew out a long breath, torn. Either he could succumb to his anxiety and go home _and_ feel the weight of his regret. Or he could go, and probably end up worse for it the next morning. He leaned his cheek against his right knee, looked up at Donghyuck. “Yeah, sure, I’ll go. At least I’ll be distracted for a bit.”

 

            …

 

            A bit turned out to be an immeasurable amount of time. Jaehyun, being the sort of guy that peaked in high school and declined from that state in the years following, still knew how to throw good parties. That being said, Jeno wasn’t the best judge of those parties, since approximately three seconds after he arrived, he was handed a cup of a glittering liquid from a platter.

            Donghyuck flicked it out of his hands, hasty, and it bounced on the hardwood and spilled. It shone against the dim lights, sticky and faintly sweet smelling. He shuddered. “Don’t take drinks like that, they could be spiked or something. Jesus, don’t you know anything?”

            Jeno raised his eyebrows at him. “I wasn’t going to drink it. Probably.”

            He snorted. “Whatever, I’ll get you something before you get yourself drugged. Where _is_ Jaehyun, anyway?”

            He jerked his head forwards. “Kitchen, I’d think.”

            “What would I do without you?” Donghyuck said, and looped his arm in his, tugged him forward and through the clump of teenagers. The most uncomfortable part of parties was the beginning, Jeno thought. That weightless moment between being set on getting wasted, and actually achieving it, when you second guessed everything that had brought you up to that point. Then Jeno thought of what he’d find Monday morning, a pocket sized angel on the other side of his Econ classroom, and followed Donghyuck into the kitchen.

            It was less busy than he’d expected, a couple and a half making out on the counter opposite from them and Jaehyun toying with a bottle of tequila. He glanced up when they walked in, grinned in that loopy way that told Jeno he was halfway to passing out on the grimy hardwood of his own house. He held up the bottle. “Can I get you boys anything?”

            “Does Jungwoo know about this?” Donghyuck put in, pulling a can of beer out of the cooler and opening it slowly.

            Jaehyun frowned. “Why would he?”

            Donghyuck lifted in his shoulders in a shrug, arranged his features into something not quite derisive. “I mean, it’s not like Jeno and I are—You know, of—"

            Jeno reached forward and placed a hand on his mouth, a learned gesture. It shouldn’t have made his heart clench wrong, but it did, and a lesser version of him would’ve reached out to down Donghyuck’s beer. He held himself back. Jaehyun considered the incomplete statement, chewing on ice. “You guys’ll be responsible, it’s fine. If you don’t tell Jungwoo, I won’t.”

            _Responsible._ Jaehyun’s unrealistic amount of faith in them—or stupidity, whichever one was closer—made Jeno wince. Donghyuck narrowed his eyes but didn’t say anything more. Jeno said, “Can I have some vodka? If you have it.”

            Jaehyun handed him a shot glass, and he peered down at it. In the dim light of the kitchen, green going on vomit, he couldn’t make out anything but the still surface. Whatever. If he got drugged tonight, at least he had someone to blame.

            He took a sip of it, found it gross but up to standard, and tipped the rest into his mouth. Donghyuck clutched at his arm and squeezed and he lowered it from his lips. The other boy glared at him. “This isn’t Mark’s apartment, don’t get wasted all at once, just—”

            Jeno put up a hand. “I get it, I’ll be _responsible._ Go get drunk with Mark or something, I’ll be fine.” Donghyuck shifted, looked out into the crowd and back at him, examining him for something unknown. He reached out, put his hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Hyuck. Trust me.”

            “Why would I do that?” he asked, and underneath the disdain there was worry, pulling his voice taut.

            Jeno grinned, a crooked thing. “I don’t know, because babysitting me is pretty much the worst way to spend your night?”

            “You’re right about that,” he conceded and bit his lip. “Honestly—okay, whatever. Text me, if you need _anything,_ like anything at all. Like even if you need to vomit and you’re too wasted to find the bathroom—that’s really fucking gross, actually—just text me. Okay?”

            “O _kay,”_ Jeno said, shoving him out into the crowd. “See you later.”

            Donghyuck left him like that, one last concerned glance thrown over his shoulder, like if he kept him in his line of sight, he’d be safe. After he’d left, the smile dropped from Jeno’s lips, and it felt like a weight had fallen from his shoulders. He hadn’t registered how much effort it took to smile all the time, to tie together those fraying threads so they wouldn’t unravel and tear him apart.

            He leaned back against the wall adjacent to the doorway, halfway between the almost quiet of the kitchen and the chaos of the living room. Let his eyes fall closed and—it wasn’t enough. He stared sadly down at his empty shot glass. It was a naive move, really. After years of building up a tolerance, a shot of vodka just made him a tiny bit warm.  

            Jeno made his way back into the kitchen. The couple and a half was still there, two thirds shoved up on the counter and the last one sandwiched in between. He averted his eyes, pointedly stared at the cooler, but Jaehyun had left at one point, and there wasn’t much he could do short of plugging his ears with wax. He considered the consequences of taking the entire bottle of vodka, nursing it all night. But he heard Donghyuck’s voice in his head, reprimanding, and just tipped some into a red Solo cup. That’d last him through the night, if he was smart about it.

            Before he knew it, the party was in full swing, coming up on eleven. There was little worse than that moment of indecision, that was true. But waiting to get drunk, impatience bordering on recklessness bordering on an emptiness that couldn’t easily be described... That was somehow worse. Jeno stared down at the Solo cup, banana slug rational thinking be damned, and poured the rest of it into his mouth.

            And there it was. He would’ve smiled, if he had the energy to but, as it was, he just grasped the edge of a coffee table to steady himself. He wasn’t quite there yet, though, still on the sober side of tipsy if he wanted to be honest. Jeno carefully weaved through the crowd, motor control still in his control, even though it was a volatile kind of thing, like running across a tightrope between two skyscrapers blindfolded.

            The couple and a half had left, but another couple had replaced them, and Jeno didn’t have the time or patience to deal with bad kissing and overly exaggerated moans. He ducked under them, poured some more vodka into his cup, albeit with shaky hands, and escaped as quickly as possible.

      The next time he breathed properly, he was in what he thought was the room across. The first thing he noticed was that he didn’t recognize the room, and that it didn’t have windows or a door out except the one he’d used to get in. The second thing he noticed was that the kitchen wasn’t through that door, just another room he didn’t recognize. The third thing he noticed was that he wasn’t alone.

            The other resident of the room was laid across the couch, two empty cans of beer at their socked feet. Jeno couldn’t see the details of their face from here, but their head was propped up by one hand, elbow pressed flat against the upholstery. They were staring at the sand colored walls with a peculiar intensity. Jeno picked up the beer cans, placed them on the coffee table, and wedged himself between their feet and the other side of the couch. They could’ve had the basic manners to not take up the entire couch, but. Jeno didn’t expect a lot from people at these parties.

            The other occupant, peered up at him when they registered the disturbance. They rolled over, socked feet uncomfortably warm against Jeno’s chest. Pulled themselves up, almost, back supported by the arm of the sofa.

            Jeno looked over at them, and in the flickering glow of the single lamp in the room, gears began to roll and click in his head. Features cut sharp in lukewarm light, and lips far too red. He almost laughed, right then, a bitter, sad thing that carved out a space behind his sternum, waiting. He kept it there, swallowed it down and just kept watching.

            Jeno knew something was wrong fairly quickly. Because Renjun didn’t recognize him, just sat there, unseeing. He was looking, he knew that, pupils blown wide and eyes fixed on Jeno’s face. But none of it seemed to register, as if he was another face in the crowd, as insignificant as the wall behind him. He tried not to let it hurt—at least, for once, it wasn’t purposeful.

            Renjun brought his cup to his lips again, movements sharp and erratic, and haphazardly tipped it into his mouth. Jeno caught a glimpse of red—wine. Okay, yeah, that made sense, a lot more sense than—whatever. He let his eyes fall closed for a moment, let himself bask in how shitty this night was getting, and how quickly it’d gone bad.

            He pulled out his phone and checked the time. One A.M., and actually, when the fuck had it gotten that late? He couldn’t have taken that many detours between the kitchen and here, but then again, he had absolutely no idea where he was. For all he knew, he could’ve left Jaehyun’s house and went to another party.

            Renjun finished off that cup and laid it on the floor beside him, then reached over and pulled another cup off the table. It took a moment, but his deteriorating logic made the connections, and he just barely bit back a laugh. Of course _he’d_ do that. Only Renjun put in work so he could get wasted at a stranger’s house with as little interference as possible.

            Jeno looked back down at his cup, at the liquor still at the bottom. Then at Renjun, slowly drinking himself comatose.

            _It’s just because it’s a decent thing to do,_ he told himself. _It’s not because you like him, just because you’re nice._

            The voice in his head stopped to tell him that maybe a _nice_ person would’ve put in the effort to learn the names of the people in their grade. Jeno threw back the rest of the vodka and the voice shut up.

            Renjun kept drinking, and he wondered why he’d expected him to stop now that someone else was in the room. It didn’t matter to him, socked feet against a warmer version of the arm of the couch and eyes half lidded. Jeno took a deep breath. _This is a bad idea,_ he thought, but he rarely followed through on any other kind.

            He tapped Renjun’s arm, the one closer to him, sandwiched between Renjun’s side and the upholstery. He stopped, a twitchy stuttering movement, cup halfway to his mouth. His lips parted, and he blinked at him. Jeno could see him thinking, but. A no go, it seemed, and he just tilted his head to the side and thought harder.

             “Hey,” he said, and it came out a bit softer than intended, but Renjun still heard it. He flicked his eyes up, from his worn graphic t-shirt to his eyes. Jeno jerked his head at the Solo cup. It shook in his hands, the opposite of a deliberate gesture. “Slow down, maybe?”

            Renjun didn’t say anything for a moment, gaze thoughtful. When he looked at him, he seemed faraway and yet painfully in that moment, stationary in a way that tore at him. The syllables stretched when he spoke, chasms between the vowels of his name. “Jeno?”

            And, despite it all, he smiled. It wasn’t anything more than a quirk of his lips upward, an accidental twist of his mouth. But it was enough that Renjun smiled back, for once, a soft grin. His teeth were too white in the near darkness of the room, and this night was a bust. A failure, a complete and utter disaster, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

            Jeno said, “Why are you here?”

            Renjun shrugged back, a sloppy movement that heaved his shoulders up and around. “Dunno, why’re you?”

            There was no easy way to say that he was here to get over him, and so he just shook his head and tapped his fingers against his half full cup. “Free drinks, I guess.”

             “Yeah. Free drinks,” Renjun echoed, dragging his eyes across the surface of the wine. He moved to tip it back again, wrist snapped back sharply, but Jeno’s hand moved of its own volition. He stopped him halfway there, lips parted and eyes wide. Renjun pulled his hand out of Jeno’s, gaze considering but hard. “’M fine.”

             “I really don’t think you are,” Jeno said. “How many have you had before that?”

            Renjun didn’t say anything, just glanced at the pile of cups and cans to the side of them. Jeno laughed, but it held no humor, just a barbed kind of judgement. And it wasn’t like he was in the position to, when here he was, a flame behind his ribs burning him from the inside out and his vision blurry on the edges.

             “Did you come alone?” Jeno said, when it became clear he wasn’t going to say anything else of his own accord.

            Renjun nodded, and tucked his chin in, stared down at himself as if he didn’t recognize his own body. “They don’t—Nana and Chenle don’t know, so like.” He was quiet for a moment, as if the words pained him to say. “Don’t tell them, don’t make them come, I don’t want them to—” he waved a hand up and down, at himself. His eyes were wider now, and there was a hint of something raw and not easily read there. Jeno knew he wouldn’t remember anything the next morning, but out of courtesy, didn’t try to take him apart. Renjun heaved another sigh, his words packed together. “I don’t want them to see me like this.”

            Jeno took a deep breath. “Okay.” Renjun looked up at him, eyes bright and yet not even there at all, untethered and grateful. He put up a hand, and he deflated, just slightly. “But I’m taking you home.”

             “Jeno—”

             “Is anyone else going to do it?” he said, and Renjun bit his lip. “How exactly were you planning to get home tonight, Renjun?”

             “An Uber?”

             “Do you think someone’d Uber you home when you’re pretty obviously wasted—” Jeno cut off when he realized the holes in his logic. “Okay, listen, maybe somebody would but that’s not fucking safe, you can’t just—Jesus Christ, you’re supposed to be the smart one here. And aren’t your parents going to notice, if you just drive up in some shady fucking Uber, drunk off your ass—”

             “They won’t,” Renjun said, so quietly that Jeno didn’t hear him at first. He glanced at him, at the way his breaths came ragged. He looked up at Jeno, held his gaze for a few seconds, then said, louder, “They won’t. You don’t have to do this.”

             “Maybe,” he said, coolly but with a hint of hysteria tinging the edges. “Maybe, but fuck what I’m morally obligated to do, honestly. Can you stay here?”

            “I. What?” Renjun said.

            “Can you stay here for a second?” Jeno repeated, and yeah, there was the vodka, just a few minutes too late. Could he stagger through this fucking labyrinth of a house and back? Questionable, but he was willing to try.

            Renjun nodded, head thrown back and forward twice sharply. He peered down at his cup, then said, “Can I finish this, though?”

            Jeno considered how much the remains of that cup of wine would affect him, sighed, and said, “How much do you want to, one to ten?”

            “Five hundred billion gajillion,” Renjun said, and well. He couldn’t argue with that.

            Jeno shrugged. “Finish it, I’ll be back in a sec.”

            And he turned and threw himself into the next room over, utterly foreign and packed wall to wall with people he didn’t know. The air was heavy with the smell of alcohol and sweat, and God, he was just too fucking tired and too fucking drunk to deal with this. He pressed himself against the wall, far too close to a couple making obscene noises, and pulled out his phone. The light was too bright this late, but he squinted against it and opened his messages.

 

            **jeno _[1:47 A.M.]:_** where r u

 

            **hyuck _[1:48 A.M.]:_** in the living room where r U

 

            **hyuck _[1:48 A.M.]:_** is smth wrong ur alright right

 

 **jeno _[1:49 A.M.]:_** i’m fine, but idk where i am

 

 **hyuck _[1:49 A.M.]:_** right well jeno i’d classify that as NOT FUCKING ALRIGHT

 

 **jeno _[1:50 A.M.]:_** can u help me.. figure out where i am then

 

            A notification for an incoming facetime call blinked on his phone and Jeno accepted, trying to angle the camera so that it got a fairly unobstructed view of the room. He whispered, “Do you recognize it?”

            “Yeah,” Donghyuck said, voice barely audible amidst the noise. “Yeah, that’s like, the family room, a couple hallways down from the living room.”

            Jeno wrinkled his nose. “Why does he need a living room _and_ a family room?”

            Donghyuck’s disdain was audible through the phone. “’Cause he’s rich? Anyway, what’s the real reason you texted me, because I swear to God, if you got in some fucking fight with a drunk dude and now you need someone to fix you up—”

            “It’s not that,” he interrupted, and his voice was surprisingly smooth, despite the alcohol. “You have Jaemin’s number, right?”

            “I—Yeah, of course I have Jaemin’s number, we’re friends, we have high tea on Saturdays,” Donghyuck said, and on the other side of the call, there was a high-pitched scream they both elected to ignore.

            “With scones?”

            “With scones,” Donghyuck replied. “But why does that matter? Oh. _Oh._ Jeno, don’t tell me you—”

            “I didn’t do anything,” he said, heart high in his throat. “I was just wondering if you could maybe ask him for Renjun’s address—”

            “Oh _my God,_ you couldn’t let it go for one _fucking_ night, _Jeno—”_

            And there was too much lacing that statement, disappointment and concern and millions of other unreadable emotions, and Jeno just couldn’t take it. It was almost two A.M. now, and he was stuck in this fucking house, almost too drunk to stand on his own, and Donghyuck was taking the time to lecture him on his own hopeless crush. Quietly, but with enough force that when he spoke, Donghyuck went quiet, he said, “Just ask him for the address. I’ll explain it to you later, I will, and I swear it’s not what you think it is. Just—please.”

            He was quiet for a bit, the only sound on the other side of the phone the shouts around him, and then he said, “I just texted him. He asked who was asking, and I gave him your name, so now he’s asking why.”

            Jeno couldn’t help a laugh at that, a shadow of the one he’d hidden earlier, and it sounded wrong to his ears. Renjun hadn’t wanted him to do this, hadn’t wanted him to tell Jaemin, and yet here he was. It seemed inevitable, though. At this point, he’d be better off knocking at every house in town until he found Renjun’s.

            He exhaled, said, “Tell him I can’t say right now.”

            Donghyuck snorted. “He said if you don’t say, he’ll come over and find out himself.”

            Jeno pinched the bridge of his nose. It wasn’t like he expected any less, but it was frustrating nonetheless, a knot wedged in his throat and his breaths coming short. He forced himself to speak, halting words that did nothing to convey what he wanted them to. “Renjun’s here, and he’s literally fucking wasted with no ride home. He doesn’t want Jaemin or Chenle to come, I barely got him to agree with me taking him home except—” he broke off, gave a shuddering sort of laugh, cracked on the edges. “Except I don’t fucking know where his house is.”

            He didn’t say anything, and after a few minutes, replied, “Jaemin says it’s 352 Lakeview Drive, and that Renjun’s parents aren’t home right now, so there’s a key under the doormat. He also says that if you try any funny business he will personally rip you apart limb from limb and feed you to a rattlesnake.”

            “I see,” Jeno said, swallowing hard. Personally, he liked his limbs, liked—having them attached to him. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

            Donghyuck said, “Well, now that we’re fucking done with what Jaemin has to say, can I please tell you that you are one of the dumbest fucking idiots I have ever had the pleasure of being friends with—”

            “Thanks, really, it means so much—”

            “—And I love you a fucking lot, so, even though you’re pulling the good Samaritan card here and all, just. Take care of yourself, too, you’re pretty drunk yourself, by the sound of it,” Donghyuck heaved a sigh, so loud Jeno could hear it on the other side of the line. “This is probably a shout into the void and all that, but try to be smart about this, okay?”

            “I will,” Jeno said firmly. “I will, I promise. I’ll—I’ll see you later.”

            “Yeah, whatever,” Donghyuck said, just a little bit less worry in his voice than earlier, and hung up.

           

            …

 

            When Jeno returned to the room, Renjun had sat up on the couch, socked feet balanced against the edge of the coffee table. He knocked lightly on the open door and Renjun glanced up, a soft smile playing on his lips, one that told him he was even more far gone than he’d been when he’d left.

            Jeno cast a glance around the room, at the empty cups and cans, and for half a second, felt guilty for trashing Jaehyun’s place. Then he brought his hands up, straight in front of him, and tried his best to offer a smile. “Can you get up?”

            Renjun frowned at his own arms. “Dunno, ‘m sorry.”

            He sighed and leaned forward, looped his arms around Renjun’s shoulders and brought him up. He was too close, then, chest held flat against Jeno’s and arms limp on either side. Jeno moved quickly to the side, so that one arm held Renjun close to his right side and the other was wrapped around his waist. They took a step; Jeno stumbled, Renjun nearly fell. He bit back a sour laugh. This was a great idea.

            But that was how they escaped the house, two boys tied together with quickly languishing motor control. Renjun almost fell back, once, and Jeno barely held onto his left arm, pulled him forward and out with a force that must’ve hurt. But the other boy didn’t say anything about it, just picked up his pace.

            It was cold outside, moon high in the sky and the street deserted. Glancing back at the house they’d left felt wrong, somehow, like the act of reconciling all that chaos with the quiet out here was sacrilegious. Jeno brought Renjun up, steadied him with the palms of his hands. “Are you okay?”

            Renjun didn’t look at him, scraped his gaze across the asphalt under their feet. He flicked his eyes up, past him first, and then at him. “’M good.”

            “Okay,” Jeno said, drawing a breath in slowly. It stung slightly, but he ignored it. He pulled out his phone and typed in the address, taking Renjun’s hand loosely in his before walking down the street.

            Halfway there, Renjun tugged on his arm, twice in succession. Jeno looked back at him. The moonlight cast him in an eerie light, the shadows of his face sharper. This close, this late, Jeno could see the circles under his eyes, the hollows of his cheekbones. His mouth quirked up and to the side, and he said, “Could you carry me?”

            Jeno’s mind short circuited for a second, thoughts appearing and disappearing in the same moment. Carry, he asked him to—carry him. Jeno’s chest felt too tight to breathe and he just barely managed a, “What?”

            “Could you carry me?” he repeated, drew out the last vowel.

            “How?” Jeno asked, because monosyllabic answers were the only thing he was capable of at this point.

            He tilted his head. “Piggyback, maybe. You said you could, so I’m just. Asking.”

            _When did I ever say I could carry him?_ Jeno thought, panic making his breaths go quick. It wasn’t exactly wrong—Jeno could definitely carry him, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why he would’ve told him that.

            “Okay,” Jeno said, and fantastic, he wasn’t even in control of his own words anymore. He turned slowly, resigned to this fate, and prayed his face wasn’t burning as much as he felt like it was. Renjun carefully wrapped his arms around him, loose and yet too tight for comfort, climbed on with all the surety that he shouldn’t have had.

            It took a few seconds to adjust, a few seconds for him to balance his latent realization of what had happened with the panic holding him taut. He bit his lip, took a couple steps forward and found them stable enough to continue.

            Jeno had made a lot of bad decisions in his life, but this had to be the worst. There were so many things wrong with it, so many reasons for the sharp tightness in his chest, but he couldn’t stop now. He couldn’t run away, and the knowledge that he had to finish this was painful.

            That being said, if he were to say that it was a completely uncomfortable experience, he’d be lying. And somehow that made it worse, but he pushed that thought away. He could hate himself as much as necessary in the coming days, but for now, Renjun had asked for this and he’d done it, and that was all he’d allow himself to think of.

            When they were coming up on his house, a soft mumbling noise came from the area beside the skin beside Jeno’s neck and he stopped. He shifted Renjun slightly, then made his way up the stairs, stooped to pick up the key and turned it in the lock.

            Inside, it was deserted, the warm glow of a single light illuminating the entire house just slightly. The door led in to a living room, and a kitchen on the other side. It was artfully decorated, colors and materials that made Jeno’s stomach drop with realization.

            Jeno carefully pulled Renjun off his back, scooped him up in his arms bridal style. His eyes were fluttered closed, lips parted slightly. He placed him carefully on the couch pressed against the opposite wall. There was a blanket on the arm of the couch, too soft to the touch, and he draped that over him too. Renjun pulled it closer around him, murmuring something too quiet for Jeno to hear. His brows drew together in an emotion unreadable, yet laden with hurt.

            But it was none of his business, and he wasn’t even supposed to fucking be here in the first place, and so Jeno ducked into the kitchen as quick as he could. Everything about the kitchen reaffirmed what he’d thought—not only he was rich, he was like, filthy rich. He could probably buy Jeno’s house, and everything inside it, several times over. It should’ve made him a bit bitter, but it didn’t, didn’t do anything at all.

            He walked around the kitchen, opening drawers and cabinets until he found one filled with cups. He took out a mug with a floral design on it, delicate and ornate. Jeno twisted the faucet carefully, so that Renjun didn’t wake, filled the cup halfway. There was a window beside the sink, and the moonlight turned the entire kitchen bluish. That voice in his head was trying hard to make him notice, make him realize where he was and what was going on and the wrongness of it all, but his chest still felt too tight to breathe; his mind was still worn to put it all together, and for once, he was thankful that he was too wasted to think properly.

            When he returned to the living room, Renjun had moved around slightly, twisted around in the blankets. That peculiar expression was still on his face, unreadable without a full night’s sleep and sobriety. Jeno left the cup beside him, and hunted around for a notepad and pen. He found one on the counter, wrote a quick note and left it beside the cup.

            He checked his phone; it was nearing three, now, and his father had probably gotten home. Jeno was better off spending the night at Mark’s, and he texted him that, leaned against the expensive wallpaper. Mark took a few seconds to reply, but said that the spare key was under the succulent, as always.

            Jeno glanced back at Renjun before leaving. The creases in his face had flattened out, and he looked at peace, almost. He took a deep breath, steadying, and closed the door before he could come to terms with what had passed.

 

            …

           

            Renjun woke up to a splitting headache and the realization that he’d made a mistake.

            He was sleeping on the couch, which he hadn’t done since he was a kid, since he’d tried to have a one man sleepover and got yelled at constantly in the days following. When he realized, fear sparked in his chest, brief but sharp, before he realized that his parents were still out. They wouldn’t be back for weeks, and yet that small moment of terror lingered.

            A mug of water, a small note written on a shred of paper, and his phone were laid out on the coffee table, neatly ordered save for the way the paper was crooked. It was a strange kind of inconsistency, inadvertent in a way that seemed almost familiar.

            He drew in a rattling breath and picked up his phone. The movement sent another sharp burst of pain through his skull, and he leaned back against the upholstery and squeezed his eyes shut until it subsided. He winced. _8 missed calls. 3 messages._ He opened the messages; they were all from Jaemin.

 

            **jaemin _[7:46 A.M.]:_** jeno told me what happened but i wanna hear what u have to say

 

            **jaemin _[7:47 A.M.]:_** btw if u ever pull anything like that again i will KILL U

 

            **jaemin _[7:48 A.M.]:_** call me later ig

 

            Renjun pinched the bridge of his nose, heart beating against his chest. To say he was panicking would’ve been an understatement. _Jeno—_ what had Jeno done? What had _he_ done _to_ Jeno? He huffed a laugh, and it didn’t come out quite right. He was never drinking again.

            He carefully called Jaemin back, nibbling his bottom lip as he waited. Renjun pressed his fingers against his temples, used his other hand to steady himself against the arm of the couch as he pulled himself to his feet. He carried his phone loosely in his other hand, shuffling aimlessly to the bathroom.

            Jaemin picked up halfway there. His voice was hard to examine with Renjun’s head throbbing like it was, but thankfully, he made his thoughts clear. “What the hell is wrong with you, Junie?”

            The contrast between the nickname and the harshness in his words sent another spike of pain through his head. He nudged the bathroom door open and mumbled, “What’re you even talking about?”

            “I—What am I even talking about? Oh, _right,_ you don’t remember a single thing from last night because you, the little _genius_ you are _,_ just _had_ to drink yourself nearly dead at one of Jaehyun’s parties, no less—” Jaemin broke off, heaved a sigh. “Are you fucking okay?”

            “’M fine,” he murmured, pulling a bottle of aspirin out of the cupboard. “Just really fucking hungover.” He paused for a moment, hesitant, then said, “What do you mean?”

            “What?”

            “About what I did last night,” he said, too reticent to be casual. “About Jeno. What happened?”

            Jaemin snorted. On the other side of the line, Woojin was screaming. “Do you really not remember _anything?”_

Renjun huffed a harsh laugh. “I mean, yeah, I really don’t remember _anything._ If I did, I wouldn’t be asking you.”

            He was quiet for a moment. Renjun swished his bottle of water gently, then poured a little in his mouth and swallowed a couple of aspirin. He said, “According to Jeno, you were at Jaehyun’s party—which, by the way, was a terrible decision on your part—and you were seriously wasted. And you didn’t even want me or Chenle to come pick you up, so he had to take you home. Like, one, I don’t know why you would ever think I’d judge you, no matter how drunk you happened to be. And two, _Lee Jeno?_ Out of everyone in the world to take you home drunk, how did _I_ rank below _him?”_

“I don’t know,” Renjun said honestly, and replaced the aspirin bottle. His fingers were shaking a little but he ignored them, just pressed his palm to his forehead and sucked in air like it’d save him, like it’d make this all a dream. He chewed his lip. “He—he took me home?”

            “Yeah, he walked you,” Jaemin said absentmindedly.

            Renjun groaned, banged his head back against the bathroom door and regretted it deeply. “This is a mess.”

            “Finally, you understand,” he replied drily, and shifted the phone. “But out of curiosity, why did you go to the party?”

            He could remember it, vaguely. A sense of emptiness, a desire to wash away thoughts building like dark clouds on the horizon. Sometimes—the house was just too big, and that was too much to handle, even after years of careful acclimation. Instead of telling Jaemin that, he said, “I don’t remember.”

            He scoffed, but it was softer than earlier. “Figures. I wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t remember the entirety of yesterday, honestly.”

            “Yeah,” Renjun said quietly, returning to the living room. The mug of water and note stared up at him, waiting, and he felt unready. He leaned back against the couch, brought his knees up and took the water and note in each hand.

            Jaemin was quiet for a moment, and by the time he started talking again, Renjun was already halfway through the note.

           

_hey, it’s jeno !!_

_sorry for breaking into your house, i left some water. u should drink it. stay hydrated and all. i’ll see u on monday?_

            It was brief, but sweet in an awkward way. He bit back an expression—he wasn’t sure whether it was a smile or a frown. Jaemin said, “I think you should give him another chance.”

            “Who?” Renjun asked, because he knew the other boy was right.

            He laughed, knowing. “Jeno.”

            Renjun exhaled. “I told you why. Why this isn’t—real.”

            “’A crush of circumstance,’” Jaemin quoted. “’A crush of convenience.’ Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t think lugging you home last night was convenient for him.”

            “He was just,” Renjun said weakly. “He was just being nice. Doing the right thing. Doesn’t have anything to do with _me,_ as a _person—”_

            “He could’ve just walked past that room, Renjun,” Jaemin said, and he could almost see his expression now, brows raised and lips twitched in the beginnings of a smile. “There was no reason for him to stop and help you, and no one would’ve known if he hadn’t.”

            Renjun took a long sip of water. At one point, it’d been cold, but now it was just an uncomfortable kind of lukewarm. He said, “Okay. He did something nice for me, and now what? I ask him out? Sorry, I’m just not familiar with the procedure for flirting with your old crush.”

            “Cut it out,” he replied, hard edged. “You’re just like this because you know I’m right.”

            “What if you are?” Renjun said, quieter.

            “I don’t know,” Jaemin said. “Stop being an asshole to him?”

            He could do that. Jeno deserved that, at the very least. He blew out a breath. “Whatever, I’ll—I’ll try.”

 _“But,”_ Jaemin said, and it was equal parts teasing and warning. “If he pulls any shit, you tell me, immediately.”

            “That’s not ominous at all.”

            “It’s supposed to be ominous,” he replied. “I’m coming over later with leftovers, put on some clothes and try to stop smelling like booze.”

            Renjun wrinkled his nose. “Don’t call it booze, that’s weird.”

            “You know what, not even gonna ask. Stop smelling like alcohol, dumbass.”

            He hung up shortly after, and Renjun finished off the cup of water. He peered at the bottom, starting to feel uncomfortable in his clothes. He looked over the top of the mug at the note, sitting on the edge of the coffee table, and sighed.

            Monday. At least he had until Monday.

 

            …

 

            Monday came too soon.

            Renjun managed to avoid Jeno for the entirety of Econ, through some combination of sheer luck and carefully calculated bathroom breaks. But the same couldn’t be said for Art. He came in a couple minutes late, kept his gaze on the speckled tile so he didn’t have to meet Jeno’s.

            He dropped his bag at his desk, bit at his lip as he took a seat. Just out of curiosity, nothing more, he glanced across the classroom. Jeno stared back, eyes widened just a fraction. There was something unsaid in his eyes, a request; an apology; a confession; a political statement. Renjun couldn’t tell, but his heart squeezed once.

            “It’s due at the end of the month,” Seo said loudly, and the chatter in the classroom petered out to a stop. He grabbed a marker, started writing on the board in his loopy script. “It’s a partner project, I’ll pass out a sheet with the details after I finish this. Unlike the one at the beginning of the year, I’m picking the partners.”

 _No,_ Renjun thought. _Seo, I know there’s mercy in there, even just a little, please—_

            But there were consequences to convincing your teacher you were bullying one of your peers. There were consequences to stopping the excuse for bullying, and consequences to kindness. Renjun resolved to never be kind again.

            Seo caught Renjun’s eyes when he left him his sheet, winked. He said, “Don’t worry, I used a randomizer.”

            Renjun highly doubted that a randomizer would be so devoutly dedicated to fucking over his life, but stranger things had happened. Seo finished passing out the papers, and the chatter resumed. Out of his periphery, he could see Jeno walking over, unsure but unceasing. It was an apt set of descriptors, like he was nothing more than a monster truck with self esteem issues.

            “Hi,” Jeno said, dropping into the chair opposite him. Déjà vu consumed him, familiarity mingling with discomfort and warmth.

            “Hi,” Renjun repeated carefully, because he didn’t trust himself to say much else. There was quiet silence, then, and he could almost hear the artificial sound of crickets chirping. It was bordering on painful, and only half aware of his own actions, he blurted, “How was your weekend? The rest of it, that is.”

            Jeno offered a small smile, played with the corner of the sheet. “I was really tired, but it was okay. Did some homework. What about you?”

            Renjun thought of his Saturday night, watching reruns of soap operas with a tub of miscellaneous leftovers. He tilted his head, quirked his mouth in something that hopefully passed muster. “Managed.”

            “So, um—”

            “About the project—”

            They both broke off, gesturing at each other. Jeno’s ears had gone red, and when he spoke his cheeks flushed too. “I know you don’t—I mean—whatever. Are you free after school?”

            “I am,” Renjun said, two stilted words that didn’t fit together right. “Yeah, I am, why?”

            Jeno shrugged. “We could go over to the diner, since we didn’t exactly—finish the other day. Maybe start working on it, before procrastination sets in.”

            “That sounds good,” he said, drawing in a breath slowly. “Yeah, um, we can start working on the basics now, then?”

            The period went by quicker than he’d initially expected. Jeno wasn’t awkward around him, or maybe he was just as awkward as he always was. But something had shifted, an imperceptible change in the way he carried himself. The day ended before he could figure it out, hands raised in farewell on his way out of the diner.

            But it was fine. He had the rest of the month to figure it out.

 

…

 

            Renjun got along way too well with the staff. Like, annoyingly well. Gaining Jaehyun’s affections was pretty easy, since he had about the same requirements for a friend as a Labrador retriever. But three meetings into their project, and he’d already charmed Jungwoo too.

            Sicheng was an entirely different story, in the worst way. Jeno wasn’t sure whether they knew each other from a different life, were childhood friends, or were just _compatible._ They were barely getting work done, but it was fine, because Renjun had found his platonic soulmate.

            Renjun nibbled at a fry idly, typing at his laptop with the speed and force of a small hurricane. Jeno raised an eyebrow at him uneasily, sipping from his milkshake. He had a role to play, he knew that, some list of objectives to complete throughout the meeting. But Renjun had smiled when he’d told him them, a good smile, one with teeth, and all his words had gone out Jeno’s other ear. Jeno picked up his discarded pencil and drew lines on his scratch paper, interlocking vines that had no purpose, no start or end.

            “What are you doing?” Renjun asked. Jeno flicked his eyes up. He was watching his fingers move, but when he stopped, he shifted his gaze to Jeno’s face. There was a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

            “I, um,” Jeno said. “I’m brainstorming.”

            “We’re literally halfway through the project.”

            “It’s never too late to do some… supplementary brainstorming,” he replied carefully. Renjun laughed, an accidental thing that didn’t seem quite real.

            “Okay,” he said. “Could you do the supplementary brainstorming after we finish the presentation, though?”

            Jeno frowned and stirred his milkshake. “What can I do for you, sir?”

            “Cite the sources?”

            He looked up at him, gave a blank stare that made Renjun blink in panic. He put his face in his hands, took a couple of deep breaths, then said, “It’s fine, I’ll get that too.”

            Jeno shifted in the booth. “I don’t want you to do _everything.”_

Renjun stopped in his work, closed the laptop carefully. There was a peculiar look on his face, strained and almost rueful. Jeno’s chest felt tight; he was sentient dead weight. He worried at his lip, then spoke quickly.

            “I can talk to Seo about changing your partner—”

            “Do you mind going to the grocery store?”

            They were silent for a moment. Renjun’s eyes had gone wide, and he was almost unnoticeably paler than the second before. Jeno’s internal organs were packing their bags, and he felt stretched thin, that stomach drop moment of regret right after you said something terribly wrong. If someone had asked him to say anything about the diner right then, about the flickering light bulb and Sicheng leaned against the counter surreptitiously eavesdropping, about the shining white tile and the limp fries on the table—he wouldn’t have been able to say a damn thing.

            Renjun spoke first, because he was a functioning teenager, and didn’t shut down immediately when confronted with stressful situations. He said, “I don’t need another partner.”

            “But, um,” Jeno said.

            “No,” he said. “I really don’t. Sorry if it came off that way. Did I do anything?”

            “You. Didn’t,” he replied. “I just. Whatever. Grocery store?”

            Renjun inhaled deeply. “Yeah, uh, for the poster. Could you get tempera paint?”

            “Isn’t that the thing they deep fry food in?”

            He blinked at him for a few moments, like Jeno’s brand of idiocy required its own time to pick apart. Finally, he said, “Do you mean… tempura?”

            “Yes,” Jeno said, because saving his dignity was a lost cause at this point. “I meant that.”

            Silence, and then: “I’ll text you a picture.”

            When Jeno got back, Sicheng was in his seat, leaned forward and talking animatedly. He exhaled through his teeth and dropped the bag of tempura paint— _tempera_ paint, whatever—at Renjun’s feet. He glanced up, tilted his head. Jeno spread his hands. “Mission accomplished. Good to see I’m capable of something, I guess.”

            He winced. “That’s not—that’s not why I asked you to get them.”

            “Then why did you?”

            Renjun bit his lip, considering. His expression was the same as earlier, a thousand threads intertwined and seconds from snapping. “I don’t—I’m sorry, I can’t say.”

            Jeno smiled thinly. Sicheng glanced before both of them carefully before getting up. He tapped Jeno as he moved past him, gesturing towards the backroom. Jeno heaved a sigh and left his stuff on his side of the booth before following him.

            It was fairly deserted today, Jaehyun and Jungwoo both too busy to come in. In all honesty, Jeno had absolutely no idea how they all ran and took care of the place to such a degree. There should’ve been an owner. Was there? There was no way to know.

            Sicheng drummed his fingers against the metal trays. “Is everything alright?”

            Jeno bristled on impulse. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            The older boy shrugged suggestively, tilted his head towards the half open door. “You’re on edge. Are they…” he let the end of the sentence trail off meaningfully.

            He rubbed his temples. “It’s fine. Just tired.”

            The meeting ended quickly after that—Jeno needed to pick Jisung up from some club or another, and Renjun had something to do. He didn’t offer anything more than that, and Jeno didn’t pry.

            But some of their meetings were different. Sometimes Renjun smiled at him, laughed at an offhanded joke he made, like something from his mouth was worth anything at all. It was the same disdain as always, but watered down, less scorn and more familiarity, awe substituted by fondness.

            It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep Jeno there, tethered to a crush that meant nothing, in the end. It was enough to tie him down to something that he knew would hurt, when he took the time to think about it. So he didn’t, just stayed in this no man’s land between apathy and something more. It was easier to drift here than to come to terms with it. It was a fixed thing, these feelings. The longer he managed to keep them at bay, the easier it’d be for them both.

            Donghyuck didn’t ask—nobody did. But the knowledge hung in the air, and every word seemed loaded, a portent in every action. It was all in his mind, probably.

            There was no point psychoanalyzing a shipwreck, if it’d already sunk.

 

…

 

            Jeno awoke to crashing downstairs.

            Shouting, and then—glass breaking against a wall. His heart was too big, too weak, incapable of doing anything but pressing against his chest. Each breath was too loud, and so he bit his lip and held his breath.

            Mark’s place. He could make it, if they were quiet. A knock came at his door, a small noise that petered out to silence. He pulled on slippers and padded slowly across the carpet. Jeno opened the door gently, biting down so hard on his bottom lip he could feel blood, warm and hot. Jisung was outside, and he looked almost frail in the dim light of the corridor. His presence, his confidence, all gone. He pressed himself to the other wall, a pillowcase and backpack under his arms.

            _Jeno,_ he mouthed. _I’m scared._

He put a hand against his chest, just to feel his heartbeat. Then he pulled Jisung into his room quickly, closed the door softly behind him. Jisung opened the window with the same care, tossing his stuff into the bushes before he lowered himself out.

            Downstairs, they were still going at it, screaming so shrill that Jeno couldn’t even pick out words anymore. It beat at him, waves of noise that made it hard to breathe. He steadied himself and forced himself to stay still. This was real, he was real, he couldn’t do this right now.

            They didn’t have a lot of time. His parents were quick, efficient. It would take a shift on the mattress, a small creak to catch their attention. A shattering noise, and then more yelling. Jeno winced but shoved some food into his pillowcase, picked up his backpack with his other hand. He threw them both out the window—On the ground, Jisung picked them up.

            Routines were supposed to create ease, supposed to lead to some sense of comfort. Yet it didn’t matter how many times they went through this one—Jeno still felt close to snapping every single time, standing on a tree branch with one leg outstretched.

            Jeno closed the window carefully, just enough that it wasn’t obvious that it’d been open, and climbed down the side of the house. There were perks to the blatant lack of maintenance after all.

            Once they were on the ground, it was easier, breaths beginning to come ragged and quick. The way to Mark’s apartment was ingrained in his head, and Jisung followed him wordlessly. His slippers were loose, scraping against the ground under them in a way that slowed them slightly. It was past midnight, and the streets were empty. There was something eerie about it, but that made it easier to forget in the morning. As if it was merely a bad dream, a harsh spot of oil on an otherwise clean cloth. Washable; temporary.

            When they got there, the lights were off. Jeno put a finger to his lips and Jisung stood stock still to the side. He pulled the spare key out from under the houseplant and opened the door slowly.

 Mark glanced up when they came in, fear painting his features for a fraction of a second before it faded out to recognition. But there was something sad there too, nausea and anger under the weariness. “Again?” he said.

            Jeno nodded without saying anything, and Jisung placed his stuff on Mark’s other couch. He shook his head, rage contained entirely in that one gesture. “Have you guys even had anything to eat?”

            “Nope,” Jisung said, that familiar note of complaint clear in his voice, and if Jeno breathed out a small sigh of relief, no one noticed. It was good to have constants, to know that no matter what happened, Jisung would go on. “Do you have anything?”

            Mark shrugged, offered a grin. “Froot Loops?”

            “That’ll work,” Jisung said. “Jeno, you want anything?”

            “I’m fine,” he said, carding a hand through his hair before warily taking a seat on the couch. He checked his phone; three A.M. Jeno brought his hand up, and Jisung glanced over. “Listen, you have class tomorrow, so no funny business. Froot Loops, and then bed.”

            Jisung wrinkled his nose, reaching into the cereal box Mark had given him and chewing on a large handful. “No fun. ‘S not like you’re my teacher or something.”

            Jeno frowned at him. “I’m your brother, doesn’t that mean anything?”

            He rolled his eyes, acquiescing. “Whatever, I’ll go to bed, but I’m staying up tomorrow. There’s a show I want to catch. What about you?”

            “What… about me?” he replied cautiously. Mark brought out two mugs of warm milk and set them on the edge of the coffee table. He sipped from one carefully, fiddling with his bags and leaning them against the side of the couch.

            “When are you gonna sleep?”

            “After you do.”

            “When’s that?”

            “Fourteen o’clock,” he said promptly.

            Jisung, apparently realizing that there was no easy way to get a real answer from Jeno, sighed deeply and downed the entire mug of milk. He wiped his mouth thoughtfully, eyes already unfocused. He yawned. “Sleep soon. Sleep deprivation is bad for the…”

            He trailed off, leaned his head against the arm of Mark’s couch. A few minutes more, and he was completely out. Jeno snorted. Jisung’s ability to sleep anywhere, anytime, during anything—was possibly the most dependable part of his life right now.

            “Jisung’s right, you know,” Mark put in, stirring a mug of something steaming and leaning against the kitchen doorway. “You should sleep, it’s late.”

            “I know,” he said, tilting his head back. His head was throbbing, faintly, adrenaline and fear and a bone deep weariness mingling. “I know, I’m just. Not tired, I guess. I can handle one late night.”

            “Okay,” Mark said slowly, then in a lower tone, “Was it bad this time?”

            Jeno shrugged. “Not as bad as it could’ve been. We got out quick, but it was close.”

            “Are they gonna notice?” Mark asked, worrying his bottom lip.

            “They never do,” he said honestly, and he sighed to fill the gaping silence. “I’ll do the dishes.”

            “Jeno, no,” Mark protested firmly. “You are _not—_ go back to the couch, right now. You have to _sleep.”_

Jeno leaned against the other side of the kitchen doorway, a couple feet between them. He smiled, a small thing that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Listen, I’m going to be up anyway. And we’re already sleeping in your house, I might as well give back once in a while.”

            “You don’t need to—” Mark broke off, rubbed his temples. “Why would you need to _give back,_ you don’t owe me _anything—”_

“Yeah, I do,” he said, louder than he’d meant to. They both glanced over at Jisung in synchronicity, but he just shifted on the couch, gave another window rattling snore. “Mark, it’s fine. Please, just go to bed. I’ll be fine in the morning.”

            Mark scrubbed his eyes, then folded his arms, resolute. “I’ll help. With the dishes.”

            “I can honestly just get them—”

            “It’s my only condition,” he said. “Just let me help.”

            Jeno bit his lip and looked away, padded into the kitchen. “Okay.”

            They worked in silence, water splashing up against their arms every few seconds. Jeno screwed up his face, and Mark bit back a grin. He flicked a bit of soapy water at him, and he groaned. “You’re so fucking immature.”

            “This, from you. Did you just call _me_ immature?”

            “Yeah,” he huffed. “Stop acting like a _toddler.”_

Mark frowned, eyes smiling, and splashed the water on him. Jeno could feel soap suds on his bottom lip. He gritted his teeth. “Wanna play dirty? I can play dirty.”

            At first, it was gentle splashing. Within seconds, it devolved into a fight, flinging water droplets and suds at each other and seeing which one could stay quiet the longest. But eventually, the dishes had dried, and they were both near soaked. Mark bit back a laugh, silent but trembling with laughter. He mouthed, _I’m going to get some towels._ Jeno nodded amiably, ran a hand through his damp hair.

            He returned after a few minutes with the towels, and they dried their hair in tandem wordlessly. Finally, Mark said, “Does Hyuck know?”

            “Does he know what?” he asked carefully, head tilted down slightly. He wrapped the towel around his neck, still avoiding Mark’s gaze.

            “That you’re here.”

            Jeno exhaled, slow and rattling. “It’s not important. Don’t tell him, though.”

            His mouth twisted. “You get that that sounds really fucking shady, right?”

            “It’ll just,” he broke off, rubbed his eyes. “It’ll worry him for no reason. He doesn’t need to know, he’ll get upset.”

            “I don’t agree with this,” Mark said quietly, a warning. “I won’t tell him, but you should. He worries because he _cares,_ Jeno.”

            “I know,” he said, and it felt like fourteen o’clock, suddenly, like this night had stretched out to contain decades within it. “I know, I just. I’ll think about it.”

            Mark gave a small smile, a thumbs up to match it. “’M gonna sleep now, don’t stay up too late.”

            “I won’t,” he called softly as Mark left the kitchen. It felt too big now that he was alone, even though it was roughly the size of a large closet. The fluorescent light felt too bright, wearing at him and stripping away his patience, the quiet that had settled over him like a blanket.

            He carefully put the dishes into the dishwasher and shut it, wiped down the counters mindlessly. His head—his _skull—_ hurt, like feelings and thoughts and regrets were pushing at the edges of it, pushing and pushing until he’d just. Pop.

When he finished cleaning, he returned to the living room. Mark had pulled out an inflatable mattress and fallen asleep in the corner, beside the loveseat. A small throw pillow and blanket laid, folded, in the center of the loveseat, obviously meant for him. Jisung’s blanket had gotten tangled in his legs, and his eyebrows were drawn together in concentration. Jeno padded over to the couch, disentangled him from the blanket and spread it over him, tucking it in. Jisung mumbled something unintelligible, and he bit back a smile.

            Jeno checked his phone; almost four. He had maybe four hours to get some sleep. But for some reason, the thought sent a latent burst of fear down the back of his spine. A kind of sharp discomfort, cold and unnerving. He shivered, and pulled his folder out of his bag, leaning back against the loveseat and drawing his knees up. He drew out a single worksheet, balanced them both on his thighs as he reached for a pencil.

            That was how he waited for the sun to rise; wrinkled finger tips drumming against the base of the loveseat as he worked through his Trig homework.

 

            …

 

            “What do you mean?” Jeno asked, tapping his foot against the steps outside of the diner. His eyebrows were furrowed, a frown twisting his mouth down. It was a cute kind of gesture, reminiscent of an angry ferret, or maybe a raccoon.

            “Closed for maintenance,” Jungwoo repeated softly, closing the door behind him. “We won’t be in all weekend, sorry.”

            There was a beat of silence then, Renjun and Jeno sharing a single glance of frustration, and then Jungwoo continued, “I’m sure you two will find another place to finish up your project. Just remember to leave room for Jesus.”

            Jeno flushed, cheeks gone red in a matter of seconds. Renjun bit back a smile and said, “We’ll see you later, then.”

            Jungwoo raised a hand in farewell and disappeared down the streets. Soon, it was just them, too close to the diner for it to look accidental, and too far for it to look casual. Renjun passed a hand over the back of his neck. “We could… go over to each other’s houses?”

            “The library?”

            “Closed.”

            Jeno frowned. “Yeah, that sounds—Wait, let me check something.” He slipped his phone out and checked the date, worried over his lip thoughtfully, then said, “Yeah, okay, you can come over today.”

            Jeno’s house was on the other side of town, somewhere Renjun rarely went. It was old, worn; not precisely dilapidated, but not well maintained, vines and foliage traveling up the sides. It was painted a faded blue going on gray, and a small rocking chair sat on the front porch. Jeno lingered on the first step of the porch, even as Renjun reached to knock on the door. He glanced back. “Aren’t you coming?”

            His eyes flicked up, as if he hadn’t quite registered Renjun’s presence. “Yeah, uh. Let me get the door, I’ve got the key.”

            Jeno’s movements were compact and quick, familiar but inhibited in a way that made him seem smaller. After he opened the door, he waved one hand in, and Renjun cautiously followed him into the house.

            It smelled faintly of iron, iron and cereal. Renjun frowned, attempted to figure something about Jeno based on that, but came up empty. When he looked up, Jeno was staring at him, eyebrows raised. “Are you sniffing the air?”

            “I have a cold,” he said, with dignity. “Where’s your room?”

            Jeno smiled and turned back around, held out a hand behind him to gesture in front of him. Then he disappeared up the stairs, quiet in a way that he rarely was.

            The house was quiet, but not in the same way Renjun’s was. Renjun’s was empty, a couple of bare bones and a tarp to keep it covered. Jeno’s was the opposite, suffocating almost, like one wrong step would bring the roof tumbling down.

            “Where’s Jisung?” he asked, climbing the stairs silently.

            “At the park,” Jeno replied, brief but not harsh.

            “Your parents?”

            He stiffened, for half a second, and Renjun almost didn’t catch it. Too easily, he said, “Dunno. They’re out, I think.”

            Renjun didn’t push it, and honestly, he didn’t even have the capacity to. Because the moment he opened his mouth, Jeno opened his bedroom door, and his jaw dropped. He pressed his hand to his open mouth. “Are those kittens?”

            Jeno knelt on the soft carpet, and all three mewled softly before climbing into his arms. He turned to the side, pressed his nose against his shirt before glancing back at Renjun. He gave a crooked kind of smile, fondly patted them. “Yeah. Their names are Bongsik, Nal, and Seol.”

            Renjun took a seat on the carpet beside him, reached forward to pet Seol. “Did you name them?”

            Jeno laughed. “No, my mom did. I don’t even know the Korean alphabet.”

            Nal meowed loudly. “They’re really cute.”

            “Cuter than my potato smileys?”

            Renjun tilted his head, pretended to consider it. “A close tie, I think.”

            Jeno shifted closer, and Bongsik crawled into Renjun’s lap. He gave a small yelp, but the kitten just looked up at him, eyes wide. He said, “What do you think now?”

            “I think that I cannot possibly make this decision right now,” he said, lowering a hand to pet Bongsik. “This is like, bribery.”

            Bongsik purred and Jeno bit back a proud grin. “He likes you.”

            Renjun opened and closed his mouth, flustered. “I. Like him too. God, he’s so _cute, Jeno.”_

Jeno opened his mouth to reply, but his features screwed up, and he sneezed to the side. Nal and Seol crawled out of his arms momentarily, and he curled himself up, and coughed and sneezed some more. When he surfaced, his nose was red, cheeks pinked.

            “Are you dying?” Renjun asked.

            “I’m—” he broke off to cough some more. “’M allergic. To cats.”

            Renjun stopped petting Bongsik, and the kitten pawed at him, meowing. He frowned over at Jeno, dropping down one hand to continue patting him. “You’re _what?”_

Jeno folded his arms. “I’m allergic.”

            “Then _why are you taking care of them?”_

“Because I love them?” he asked, as if the answer was obvious, as if _Renjun_ was the one not keeping up.

            “Doesn’t it—” Renjun waved his free hand at his face. “Isn’t it hard? Sneezing whenever you see them and shit?”

            “’No pain, no gain,’’” he quoted solemnly, and he almost dropped Bongsik to slap him. A small grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Besides, I’m the only person with the time to _and_ who was willing to. I can handle a stuffy nose.”

            “What about Jisung?” he asked, and Jeno laughed.

            “Jisung fucking hates cats. He won’t come within ten feet of these babies before screaming shit about how they’re demonic and out to kill him in his sleep.”

            “That… sounds like him,” Renjun conceded. Nal and Seol crawled back into Jeno’s arms, and he petted them absentmindedly, gently. He bit his lip, then said quickly, “We should probably get to work.”

            Jeno gazed back down at his kittens sadly, and said, “You’re probably right.”

            It didn’t take them a lot of time before they got back off track. But they managed to finish the presentation and finish outlining the board in that time, so Renjun counted it a win.

            Jeno’s room was messy, but organized. There was little in it at all, a bed and a desk, a single bookshelf that was half full, and even that was being generous. But things were sprawled across the bed, pencils and markers strewn over the desk. The floor was completely clean, though, soft carpet and a pair of socks and slippers off to the side.

            When it came, Renjun was shutting down his laptop. Jeno tapped his leg, an offhand gesture that was meant to be ignored. Renjun couldn’t.

            “Wanna take a break?” he asked, laying his arms behind him and rolling his head back.

            “What kind of break?”

            Jeno snorted. “Does it matter?”

            “Why wouldn’t it?” Renjun said idly, just for the sake of prolonging the conversation. Talking with Jeno was like picking petals off of a flower; color, and the absence of it, over and over until there was nothing left.

            Jeno made a small noise of resignation and said, “Okay, um… Mario Kart? Do you know what that is?”

            Renjun carefully leaned his bag against the bed and looked up at him with a careful mixture of bemusement and disdain. “Did you just ask me if I knew what Mario Kart was?”

            “Well, do you?”

            “I—” he broke off, spluttering. “Of course I know what Mario Kart is, it’s Mario Kart. That’s like asking me if I know what an apple is.”

            “How is Mario Kart related to an apple?” Jeno said, lips quirked upwards.

            “You are just fucking with me right now,” Renjun shot back, fighting a smile. “You are just fucking with me for the sake of it.”

            “And if I am? What’re you gonna do about it?”

            Renjun considered this, then said, “Beat you at Mario Kart.”

            “You can try, I guess,” he said breezily, and offered Renjun a hand. Jeno pulled him to his feet, led him out of his room. He hurried down the stairs, leaving him to follow.

            _“You can try,”_ he muttered to himself. “What kind of self important dolt says that?”

If he hid a smile at it, though, it was no one’s business but his own.

 

            …

 

            The meeting at his house got cut short for a variety of reasons, the biggest of which being—his family. His mom had come home from work, and Jeno had ushered Renjun out as quick as he could, avoiding everything but the briefest greetings.

            They’d said goodbye outside on the sidewalk, a couple feet out of his mom’s line of eyesight. Renjun had leaned back against the hedge and smiled at him, said something about having a good time and coordinating another time to meet up. Jeno had just nodded warmly, because that was about the easiest way to react to anything out of his mouth.

            The coming Monday, Renjun was busy with leadership responsibilities. At least Jeno thought it was leadership. There was a fair chance it was like, the climate change club. He took the opportunity to explain the developments to his half eager, half weary friends.

            Yukhei held up his hand. “Question.”

            Jeno waved a fry at him. “Shoot.”

            He chewed at his milkshake straw. “Why am I here listening to you whine about this?”

            He considered this, then said, “Because it makes you feel better about your own shit?”

            Yukhei took a thoughtful sip of milkshake. “That’s fair.”

            Donghyuck cleared his throat, then cut in, “You two are really stupid, by the way. I thought I’d seen the peak of idiocy when Mark tried to jam Monopoly money into that vending machine, but this has to take the cake.”

            “Thanks,” Jeno said sarcastically. “I really appreciate your super constructive feedback on my love life.”

            “Excuse for a love life,” Jisung muttered into his burger, and Jeno glared over at him.

            Mark frowned, dipped his French fry in ketchup. “I think Jeno’s doing just fine, honestly.”

            The rest of the table turned to gawk at him, but Jeno smiled at him. “ _Thank you._ Good to know I still have one trustworthy friend.”

            “A good friend would tell you the truth,” Donghyuck singsonged, sipping on his shake. “And the truth is that you two are a fucking mess.”

            “When’re you guys meeting next?” Yukhei asked, scrolling through his phone. “Don’t you still have to finish that project?”

            “Soon, probably,” he evaded. “We still need to do the poster and all.”

            Soon ended up coming later than expected. Renjun stopped him after Art one day, the last Friday of the month. Jeno grinned down at him. “Hey, babe.”

            Renjun’s eyebrows traveled towards his hairline, mouth set in a straight line even though his eyes were smiling. “Colleague.”

            Jeno jammed his fists in his pockets, drummed his thumbs against his thighs. “What’s up?”

When he spoke, his voice was strained, as if every word took something from him. “Do you want to come over to my house?”

            “Sure?” he said, uncomprehending. He packed up his stuff, slung his bag over his shoulder. “Why, though?”

            Renjun snorted. “I don’t know if you remember or not, but we still haven’t finished the project. It’s due in like, four days.”

            “Oh,” Jeno said intelligently. “I see.”

            “Yeah,” he said, stretching out the word. He jerked his head at the front of the school. “Are you coming?”

            Jeno nodded and followed him. They walked in silence the entire way there, but for some reason it wasn’t awkward. The sun was low in the sky, casting the streets in a wan light. It made Renjun appear ghostly, a shadow of a boy. He caught Jeno glancing over at him once, cocked his head inquisitively, but he just shook his head. Renjun smiled at that, a soft twist of his lips that made him come alive, eyes bright against the dark houses behind him.

            Something between them had changed, over the past month. It felt simple, almost stupidly obvious in theory—the more time you spent with someone, the more your dynamic would change. But whatever they had didn’t seem linear, didn’t seem to follow rules of stranger-ship and friendship and—whatever came after. _Was it because of the party?_ he thought idly, as they turned a corner. It was probably because of the party. That being said, he had no idea what the party had done, only that it’d changed something. God, he was terrible at this.

            Jeno knew two things; he knew that something had changed, permanently, and that his depressing, hopeless, irrevocable crush was still perfectly intact. If anything, it had grown a bit stronger, the textbook response to being in the company of Renjun’s smile for more time than was absolutely necessary.

            His smile, and his laugh, and that dimple that popped up on his left cheek when he—

            “Jeno?” Renjun asked, and he flicked his eyes up, only a little bit guilty. He nodded at the building in front of him. “We’re here.”

            Renjun’s house looked different with the sun still out, intimidating in a million different ways. It was all stone and stucco, gold and cream organized in a way that seemed to drip wealth and extravagance. It made Jeno’s stomach turn a little, if he was being honest. It was perfectly maintained, hedges perfectly trimmed and a handful of flowerbeds covering the lawn. Jeno couldn’t tear his eyes away from it, and when Renjun tapped on his shoulder, he flinched.

            The other boy was watching him with neutrality and something more, a kind of hesitance that tore at him. When he spoke, his voice was very quiet. “Let’s go inside.”

            Jeno didn’t know what he expected from the interior of the house until he saw it, and somehow, it exceeded his expectations. Hazy memories of that night, the last time he’d been here, filled his brain, and it was hard to reconcile the two scenes. Renjun left his bag beside the couch and beckoned for Jeno to follow him into the kitchen.

            “Do you want anything to eat?” Renjun asked, opening the refrigerator and tapping at the inside thoughtfully. “Fruit? Dinner?”

            “You can cook?” Jeno blurted, the shock of someone who could make a grilled cheese on a good day. Once, he’d forgotten to take the plastic cover off the cheese before grilling it. Jisung had threatened to sue him for attempted murder.

            Renjun snorted. “Yeah, learned to, at least. Just takes practice.”

            Jeno thought that maybe, for some people, practice wasn’t enough. He said, “Where’re your parents?”

            He stiffened, closed the refrigerator door slowly before putting a couple of ingredients on the island behind him. Carefully, he said, “Out. I live alone, for the most part.”

            “Oh, um,” Jeno stuttered, swearing at himself internally. “Sorry for asking, uh. What are you making?”

            “Pasta,” Renjun said offhandedly. “Can you get the materials for the poster out? I’ll join you in a sec, I just need to get this boiling.”

            Jeno backed out of the kitchen with his trademark clumsiness, the rhythm of his steps syncopated and his breaths tightly coiled up in his chest. He finally exhaled when he was back in the living room. He stuck his head back in the kitchen. “Do you wanna work down here or in your room?”

            Renjun shrugged. “My room’ll probably be easier.” He waved his free hand to direct him, holding a pot under the faucet with the other. “Just go straight down the hallway, take a right when you get to the guest bathroom, take a left at the drawing room, go up the staircase, third room on your left.”

            “My left or your left?”

            He broke off to shoot him a bemused glare. “What?”

            Jeno bit back a grin. “Just kidding.”

            The glare petered out to a smile, or maybe Jeno was just really fucking hopeful. And prone to hallucinations. He walked out of the kitchen, markedly more upbeat than he’d been the last time.

            Renjun lived in a mansion. Jeno knew this, and had accepted it, but there was a difference between knowing that mansions were just rich people labyrinths and consciously acknowledging it.

            Right now, he was on the verge of consciously acknowledging it.

            “Right at the guest bathroom,” he muttered under his breath, and glanced around him. There were no bathrooms to be seen, and a dead end in front of him. He leaned his forehead against the cool wall, eyes half closed. He could see blurry outlines of golden ducks, and whatever else rich people used as wallpaper designs.

            “Lost?”

            Renjun’s voice came suddenly, calm but not particularly loud. Jeno glanced over his shoulder, still half pressed against the wall. He was visibly holding back laughter, narrow shoulders trembling with the effort.

            Jeno cracked a grin. “You could say that.”

            “Well,” he said carefully, holding out a hand for Jeno to take, “I can tell you that you are very, very far away from the guest bathrooms. And the drawing room. And the staircase, for that matter—”

            Jeno’s face burned, but he still took Renjun’s hand. It was warm, slightly damp from earlier. “Not my fault you live in like, a tiny version of hell. Complete with all nine circles.”

            Renjun made an approving noise. “Didn’t think you read Dante.”

            He blinked. “Who?”

            The laugh he’d been holding back made his lips quirk upwards, features still held carefully taut. “Never mind.”

            He turned on his heel and disappeared back into the hallways of the house—Jeno’s hand almost slipped from his, and he tripped forward in his haste to follow him. Renjun tugged him towards the guest bathroom, then towards the drawing room, and finally up the stairs, navigating the house with a peculiar kind of ease. Familiarity, but thinner on the edges, a ghost haunting its place of death.

            Renjun nudged him into his room, closing the door behind him. A poster board and a couple bottles of paint were carefully lined up on his desk.

            His room was surprisingly small, made smaller by the crowded furniture. Bookshelves completely covered one wall, stacks of uneven paperbacks covering the floor in clumped piles. Two dressers covered the back wall, flanking another door. One was covered in framed pictures, the other with art supplies. His bed was neatly made, cut into thin strips by the sunlight streaming in through the window.

            “So, um,” Jeno said. “Should I start setting stuff up now? Or is that just a waste of time—”

            He shook his head. “No, it’s fine, go ahead. I should probably finish making dinner. I’ll call you up?”

            He snorted. “I doubt that I’d hear you, honestly.”

            Renjun tilted his head, considering. “Okay, I’ll text you.” Without another word, he slipped out of the room and back down the stairs.

            Jeno stared at the poster board from across the room. It stared back, too judgmental for a medium large piece of glorified tree.

            He sighed, and got to work. The rest of the meeting went according to planned, which, in layman’s terms, meant that Jeno ogled Renjun for more time than was socially acceptable, and that Renjun bore it, because this was simply another part of his life. They were a strange relationship, commensalism in nature, if nature was synonymous to public high school. There was a good joke about teenage male hygiene in there, but Jeno was too exhausted to articulate it.

            The pasta was surprisingly good, except that it shouldn’t have been a surprise, because Renjun was capable of everything known to man. Jeno was half convinced that if someone sent him up to jumpstart a space colony on like, Mars, he’d get the job done just because he was, well, Renjun.

            “It’s seven,” the boy in question said. He was laid out across the floor of his room, the collar of his t-shirt pulled too far to the right. His features were screwed up slightly, a play at thoughtfulness. He brought up his paintbrush again, curled another looping design decisively around the title.

            “And what about it?” Jeno mumbled around a bite of nougat. One of the perks of being tentative friends with rich people was that you had access to their rich people candy. Jeno was feeling extremely satisfied with his lot in life right now.

            “It’s seven,” he repeated. “Don’t you have to go home?”

            The thought of home made him freeze, an involuntary movement, like the flinch after you touched a needle, pain before knowledge of it.  He said, “I can stay later. My parents won’t—They’ll be fine with it.”

            There was a difference between allowing something to happen and never knowing it’d happened in the first place, a line that he’d toed his entire life. But Renjun just shrugged, words soft when he spoke. “Okay. Just a little bit more with the decorations, I think it’ll be done.”

            He brought the paintbrush back from the paper, worried at his bottom lip before placing it reluctantly in the water cup on the side of the bed.

            Jeno’s hands moved before he let them, fingers outstretched before he had the time to exhale. Renjun’s eyes flicked up, shock giving way to something close to—it could’ve been trust, in another universe. Here, it was just familiarity, a prick of annoyance that he’d long accustomed himself to.

            “What are you—” Renjun started, voice barely a whisper. Jeno bit his lip in concentration, leaned forward so that he was dangerously hovering over the poster. He rubbed a spot of paint on Renjun’s cheekbone, and the skin underneath pinked. But it didn’t come off entirely, and he rocked back on his heels, frowned.

            “It smudged,” he said, gesturing with his blue fingers. “Sorry.”

            “It’s, uh,” Renjun cleared his throat. “Um. It’s—It’s fine.”

            “Yeah?” Jeno said, sitting up and rubbing his fingers against the paper towel to the side of the poster.

            “Yeah,” he said, a little too loud. He pulled himself to a sitting position, leaned against the side of his bed. “Fine.”

            They didn’t talk for the rest of the meeting, and every time Jeno tried to start up a conversation, he was met with uncharacteristically monosyllabic answers, dead ends where it was hard to find them.

            At seven thirty, Renjun clapped his hands together, took a deep breath and pulled his knees up in front of him. He rested his hands on top of them, rested his chin on top of his fingers. He tilted his head, then said, “It looks good.”

            Jeno rolled his eyes. “I’m so honored to have drawn a compliment from you, God of Art and probably like, everything other area of study created.”

            Renjun arched his eyebrows. “What?”

            He blinked. “Did I say that out loud?”

            The other boy hid a smile, or more likely a sharp frown, behind his knees. He idly stirred his paintbrush in the water cup, then jerked his head towards the front of the house. “Do you want me to walk you out?”

            Jeno snorted. “What, afraid I’ll get lost again?”

            A smile tugged at his lips. “I’m fairly certain, actually.”

            He flushed dark red, reminiscent of their first meeting. “Shut up.”

            Renjun just shook his head and pulled himself to his feet, extending a hand to help Jeno up too. He took the hand, and Renjun stumbled back slightly at the weight. He held out a hand to steady him, low on his waist, but it was a terrible miscalculation, the kind that toppled empires, and they fell to a crash beside the bed. The water cup spilled, inches from ruining the poster. Renjun leaned out, knocked the poster away, then looked up.

            Jeno was trying very hard to avoid looking at Renjun’s face. Or the rest of him, for that matter. There was a small moment of realization, Renjun looking up at his face and coming to terms with the situation they were in, and then Jeno scrambled off of him. He felt like he was covered in every possible shade of red, crimson and scarlet and whatever remained.

            He stared at the carpet steadily, trying to slowly calm his heart. His head was pounding; he felt like he might burst right here, right now, cease to exist if Renjun kept looking at him like that.

            Renjun looked away; he looked up.

            “I, um,” Jeno said, voice shakier than it should’ve been. There were a hundred confessions in those two words, and he kept his gaze on the tip of Renjun’s chin to keep from flushing darker. “We should. Go. To the front of your house. So I can leave.”

            Usually, Renjun would’ve made fun of him, poked some fun at his awkwardness. But he lived to surprise him, lived to take the tiny shrine Jeno kept to him in his bedroom (he was kidding) and turn it upside down, just because he could. He took a deep breath, rattling where it shouldn’t have been, and said, “Yeah, uh. You’re right.”

            He pulled himself to his feet again, too quick, and held out a hand, then pressed it to his side. Jeno stood up a few seconds later, used the edge of his bed to steady himself. They were both quiet for a moment, and then Renjun quickly walked out of his room, leaving Jeno no choice but to follow.

            The house seemed emptier at night, almost abandoned. Every exhale seemed to hang heavy in the air, the only company they had. Finally, they made it back to the living room. Jeno’s backpack was leaned against the coffee table, where he’d left it. He slung it over his shoulder, kept his eyes fixed on Renjun’s socked feet even when he spoke.

            “I can walk you out of the neighborhood,” Renjun said, voice too soft.

            Jeno snorted. “Why? Afraid I’ll get mugged by like, thirteen year olds with water guns?”

            Renjun shrugged, a fluid motion. “I don’t know, just. It’s dark outside, is all.”

            They both cast a glance outside, as if needing to check for themselves that it was, in fact, very dark. Jeno gave a small laugh, painfully, obviously artificial. “It’s fine, I can. I can take it.” He heaved a sigh. “I’ll see you Monday?”

            He gave a small smile, reached to open the door for him. “I’ll see you Monday.”

            Jeno took the long way home, because he could. Even in the faint moonlight, the vestiges of the blue paint were still visible on his fingers. He rubbed them, a kind of memento, and shared a small smile with himself and the asphalt.

 

            …

 

            It was Tuesday, and there were a couple minutes before they went up to present.

            Maybe, if Jeno had actually anticipated this, it would’ve been easier to deal with. As it was, he had to deal with his anxiety in front of Renjun, who was sending over small glances of veiled concern periodically.

            Who the fuck was anxious about an _Art_ presentation? Especially one graded by Seo; all they had to do was walk up there and speak for five minutes and they’d get an A. They could easily give a presentation on like, endangered species in the tropics. In all honesty, he’d probably give them extra credit for that. Dicks out for the Bornean Pygmy Elephant, and all that.  

            “Are you all right?” Renjun spoke up.

            Jeno pulled a hand through his hair, too hard. Even the movement felt unreal, as if he wasn’t quite here. He pressed the hand to his chest, felt his heart beat, then said, “I’m fine.”

            Renjun raised his eyebrows, but there was something unsure about his expression. “You don’t look fine.”

            “Well, what do I look like?” he replied, equal parts frayed at the edges and warm, and the other boy tilted his head.

            “Nervous,” he said, then added, “Close to passing out.”

            “As expected from the kid genius,” he mumbled, scrubbing at his face with his hands.

            Silence, and Jeno genuinely thought he’d given up on him, frowned scornfully and gone back to going over the poster. Then Renjun said, “Can I help?”

            Jeno glanced up at him, lips twisted. “This isn’t—You don’t need to help.”

            “I know,” he said, drew in a breath and let it go, slowly. “I don’t need to, but I’m not going to let you sit there and tear yourself apart. I want to.”

            Three words, and sometimes, Jeno genuinely thought that Renjun didn’t think about the things he said. He knew Jeno had this hopeless fucking crush on him, he must’ve known, and yet he just—went on. Spouting shit like that, even though he knew it hurt. A stronger version of him would’ve known not to think anything of it. This version thought, and thought, and thought, until his heart felt almost close to bursting. Anxiety _and_ Renjun; a bad combination on any given day.

            Jeno pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, then said, “What do you have in mind?”

            Renjun sat up straighter, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and Jeno felt unreasonably pleased. The voice in his head said, _Stop._ He thought, _I wish I could._

            He said, “How about a prize?”

            He laughed, short and high and nowhere close to amused. “A _prize?_ ‘Hey Jeno, I’m so proud of you for not royally fucking up our presentation, here’s a Starbucks gift card’—”

            Renjun put up a hand and continued, “You can decide the prize. Like, I’ll owe you. Whatever you want, as long as it’s not super outrageous. Jaemin knows martial arts, and I have pepper spray in my bag, and—”

            Jeno laughed again, softer. “I get it.”

            He shifted, pressed his lips together. “Well, anyway. Your choice. All you have to do is get through the presentation, provided you don’t crash and burn.”

            Jeno groaned and buried his face in his hands. “See, I knew there was a catch.”

            Renjun snorted. “It’s a _prize,_ not a gift. You have to earn it.”

            From the front of the classroom, Seo called, “Jeno, Renjun, it’s your turn!”

            The other boy extended a hand to him, fake gentlemanly. There was a teasing glint in his eyes, a casualness that somehow unwound the knots tangling in his chest. He leaned forward, and said, “Ready?”

            He blushed, an instinctive action. Red spread across his cheeks; he looked down to stare at the desk. Jeno took a deep breath, and blew it out, then glanced up at him. Renjun hadn’t been looking at him anymore, but at the movement in his periphery, he looked over. Jeno took his hand, kept his gaze on his fingers and not on the board at the front of the room. He forced a small smile, nothing more than a twist of his lips. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and as always leave a comment/kudos if u want to :DD and find me on twt @ [hwanguIt](https://twitter.com/hwanguIt) and on curiouscat @ [chuuist](https://curiouscat.me/chuuist)


	4. home is just a room full of my safest sounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renjun couldn’t help the way his mouth quirked to the side. “Is that what we are now? Study buddies?”
> 
> Jeno tugged at the drawstrings of his hoodie. “I mean, the term’s kinda relative, but like, if you want to, maybe—”
> 
> “I like it,” he said, and Jeno shut up. Renjun didn’t think he’d ever seen someone stop talking that quickly—his teeth clacked together. “I like the term. We can be study buddies.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the relatively long wait for this chapter... i was generally busier this week + dealing w writer's block n personal issues so it was just hard in general!! but i managed to get this done it's kinda shitty tho LMAOO pls don't hate me... some things to address!  
> \- i love german people. i have NOTHING against german people.  
> \- warning for underage drinking/intoxicated characters between "Jeno had helped Mark" and "quirked up"  
> \- [here's](https://open.spotify.com/user/varsh-bear/playlist/0haKHocay6iyQGOf3Ay9sx?si=C4cT1Hr3QaOYSXTKihxQcQ) a playlist for this chapter and title is from talk me down by troye sivan ... if i manage to draw out this closet australian thing for the entire fic im rly gna DIE  
> \- this is mainly just a rly lovey dovey chapter of "filler" but also i've never written filler in my entire life so read carefully (also veryyy roughly edited bc i am TIRED so i will go back and re-edit in the morning)  
> \- read the end notes!! i don't want to clutter up these notes w a bunch of shit but i have some THINGS  
> \- LAST BUT NOT LEAST happy late late late birthday to kaya ilusm and sorry for writing this so lateee i really hope u like it??? its a pretty shitty birthday present ngl BUT I HOPE U LIKE IT ANYWAY i love u sm :(

            Crashing and burning was relative. Anything from setting yourself on fire to mispronouncing a single word qualified, based on the circumstances.

            Jeno felt like he’d performed somewhere in the middle. He’d kinda been looking forward to that Starbucks gift card, but maybe he’d gotten his hopes up prematurely.

            After the presentation, there was a quiet smatter of applause. Most of the class was on their phones, textbooks, notebooks, and pencil bags shifted to hide their hands. A couple were asleep, a fraction paying attention. Seo was watching the presentations with questionable concentration, his Disney mug loose in his left hand.

            “Put the poster on my desk and share the presentation with me,” Seo called after them, delayed by a few seconds.

            Renjun did exactly that, and Jeno followed behind him like a lost puppy. It wasn’t exactly déjà vu; it was closest to muscle memory, at best. From here, Jeno couldn’t read his expression, couldn’t ascertain exactly how much he resented him. His anxiety had calmed down for a bit, right before the presentation, but it was back in full swing, because he couldn’t have good things for more than five minutes and thirty seconds.

            They went back to their seats. Jeno pulled Renjun’s chair out for him and he almost tumbled to the ground. He held out his other hand, grabbed his arm right before he hit the floor. Renjun stared at him for a few moments, incredulous and slightly—embarrassed? Probably ashamed.

            “Thanks,” he said, an exhale, and used the edge of his desk to pull himself up. Jeno let go of his arm, and he unsteadily sat down.

            Jeno took his own seat, and tried not to look at Renjun, which was about as hard as expected. Like telling an infant not to cry, and ignoring the tears pooling in their eyes. He traced the whorl of the fake wood with his finger. “Sorry.”

            Renjun didn’t answer for a moment, assessing the best ways to let Jeno down. “For what?”

            His eyes flicked up, caught the hint of alarm coloring Renjun’s gaze. There was something nauseating about misreading a situation, fear and chagrin crowding up your throat. “Fucking up the presentation?”

            “You didn’t,” he said too quickly, and coughed. “You didn’t fuck up anything? It was fine. I think we’ll get a good grade.”

            “Really?”

            “Really,” he said, upbeat but not quite there. He blinked, unfocused, then said, “So what do you want? As a present.”

            Jeno thought about it for a moment, painfully aware of Renjun’s gaze on him. There was—something. But he wasn’t going to say yes, and even if he did, it would be a drawn out kind of yes, the sort of agreement that just made you regret asking for it at the end of the day. Jeno knew this, and yet that small voice in the back of his head—not the one on the pool chair, that one had given up on him by this point—told him there was no harm in trying. Frankly, there was a lot of harm in trying, a lot of obvious harm to their delicate excuse of a friendship, but Renjun was still staring, and there were only so many minutes you could let pass by staring at the wall.

            “Um,” Jeno started. Renjun pulled a water bottle out of his bag, gestured for him to go on. “Can we… go out?”

            Renjun stopped the bottle, but it was tilted precariously, and a tiny trickle of water hit the desk. He put the bottle down quickly, without looking at him. His expression was strained, and Jeno could see it already, see him work through the fastest ways to let him down that didn’t involve pepper spray.

            “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, words packed together, and Renjun blinked at him. He took a deep breath, passed a hand over the back of his neck and laughed, brief and bashful. “I, uh. I meant like—as friends. Not as… whatever else, like just—going out as friends, seeing a movie. Not that I’m saying we should watch a movie, that’s up to you! We just. Don’t hang out that much, and it was fun doing it for the project and I’m rambling now, aren’t I, okay, I’ll stop, sorry for making this awkward.”

            Renjun didn’t say anything for a long time, just stared and stared and stared, and Jeno really didn’t know what there was to stare at. He considered pulling out a mirror and checking his teeth, but he hadn’t even had lunch today. Jeno waved his hand, cautious. “Renjun?”

            The other boy flinched so hard that Jeno regretted speaking in the first place. He pursed his lips and looked down, gaze unreadable beyond the turmoil. There was a strange sort of youth in his indecision, a juvenility in the way he glanced at him. _It’s cute,_ he thought absentmindedly, but that was nothing new. Renjun and cute were synonymous, interchangeable in the same way night and dark were. He flicked his eyes up, and when he spoke, it was a kind of exhale. “That sounds good.”

            Jeno blinked at him. “What?”

            “The—the movies,” he said, tilting his head. A lock of hair fell into his face. “The movies sound good but, um. When?”

            “Whenever you want,” he replied, and immediately regretted it; he might as well have written ‘HAS A HUGE FUCKING CRUSH ON HUANG RENJUN’ on his forehead in Sharpie.

            Renjun’s cheeks pinked. “I’ll… text you about it, then?”

            “Yeah, that’s fine,” he agreed, with roughly the same presence of mind as a sleep deprived sloth.  

            The bell rang, and they both jumped, slightly. At the head of the classroom, Seo clapped his hands together and said something possibly important. Jeno stared at him and willed his cheeks to stop burning.

            Renjun raised his hand, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and Jeno smiled and waved back, still not quite there at all. _The movies,_ he thought. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he frowned to keep himself from grinning. It was dangerous, this entire favor, the concept of it all.

            But there was no point in thinking about that now, no point in collecting water with a bottle cap in the middle of the ocean. He’d burn that bridge when he got to it.

 

            …

 

            “Wait,” Jaemin said, putting up a hand and taking a sip from his overly sugary drink. It was pink, which was probably an insult to coffee itself, but Renjun was too tired to yell at him about it. He cocked his head. “So he wants to go out with you? In a totally platonic, nonromantic way, because you guys are pals. Buddies. Two bros chilling in a—”

            “I will shove a sea urchin up your—” he cut off, glancing around him. The Tartoise was too empty for a Thursday afternoon, the late afternoon crowd absent, for once. The logo, a tortoise with a tart as a shell, was smiling back at him, and for half a second, he felt mocked. Jungeun had been wiping down tables, but she raised her eyebrows at Renjun’s stare.

            “Everything okay over there?” she called, and Renjun flushed. Jaemin grinned over at her.

            “We’re fine, but Renjun over here wants another chocolate tart.”

            Jungeun disappeared into the backroom, and Jaemin turned back to him, arms crossed. “I really don’t see the problem here.”

            Renjun reached across, downed half of Jaemin’s drink. The other boy snatched it back, and Renjun pouted but didn’t say anything more, just stared at the paintings hung on the wall. Finally, he said, “I’m scared.”

            Jaemin arched his eyebrows. “Of Jeno? It’s pretty clear he’d rather jump off a cliff running backwards than do anything to hurt you.”

            He screwed up his face at the taste and at the words. “It’s not—”

            Jungeun came out of the backroom, carrying a plate in one hand. She glanced between them, suspicious, then put down the plate. “What’s going on?”

            Jaemin sighed. “Renjun has a not-date, and he’s panicking.”

            “It’s not a not-date,” he protested, stabbing at the tart. “It’s just a thing, where we go out, and hang out. Like friends. It’s cool, it’s normal.”

            Jungeun laughed, and he’d never heard a sound more laden with disbelief. “Oh, keep telling yourself that. Have fun and tell me how it goes, my shift’s about to end!”

            “We will,” Jaemin called, and she made a noise of assent, continued to wipe down tables. Renjun frowned and took a bite of the tart. His friend slid his eyes towards him, half amused and half worried. “So? Why the fear?”

            He huffed a sigh. “What if I like, mess up? I don’t want to _hurt_ him, but what if I misinterpret something he does and it just goes _wrong?_ And what if it’s just really, _really_ awkward? And—” he cut off for a second, breathing heavily. He shoved a bite of tart in his mouth and spoke through it, chewing quickly. “I’m scared of being alone with him if there’s nothing to do.”

            Jaemin snorted. “You know, I was kidding about the Victorian dress code back then. Do you two need a chaperone?”

            Renjun stared at his tart for too long, and Jaemin made a noise of disbelief. “Seriously?”

            He glared at him pointedly. “It’s not like—I just don’t think I’m ready, in general. Like, I know it’s been a year, but I need more time, I think.”

            Jaemin reached over and cut away a piece of Renjun’s tart, made a small sound at the taste, and, after a few minutes of thoughtful chewing, said, “Okay.”

            Exasperated, he took another sip of Jaemin’s drink. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            The other boy grinned cheekily, and dread began to pool in the pit of his stomach. “You need a chaperone? You’ll get a chaperone.”

 

            …

 

            **renjun _[4:46 P.M.]:_** are you free this saturday

 

            Jeno actually happened to be free, but for some reason, he was fairly sure that even if he hadn’t been, it would’ve made no difference.

            **jeno _[4:49 P.M.]:_** yeah

 

            **renjun _[4:49 P.M.]:_** ok i’ll meet u at the plaza

 

            Jeno stared down at his phone for what seemed like years. This couldn’t possibly be happening, except it was. There was nothing to do now except like, overthink it. Which he was doing. A lot.

            _Chances he’s going to suddenly realize he hates your fucking guts?_ he thought. Twenty percent felt generous, but fifteen felt arrogant. He flopped down on his bed, stared up at the ceiling until it started reminding him of Renjun’s.

            He had homework, and he knew this, and it pressed at him more every passing second. But his responsibilities seemed far away, unimportant even though he knew they were anything but. This seemed more important, because this seemed more impossible.

            _It’s probably just pity,_ he thought, because his rational thinking never let him have anything. And it probably was, if he thought enough about it, because when confronted with an acquaintance having a borderline breakdown before a presentation that affects your grade, it’s pretty decent behavior to play along to calm them down.

            It felt shameless, how little he cared about that. But if he had a bit of shame, this never wouldn’t have happened—if he’d cared enough about his pride, Renjun wouldn’t hate him, but he wouldn’t know him, and he couldn’t figure out which one he disliked more.

            Saturday came before he could run away from it, before he could pack up his things and head to Germany to feed deer and engage in whatever German people did in their free time. The plaza was way too fucking cold for a Saturday afternoon, but then again, early winter was beginning to loom on the horizon, and cheap gloves hung from every pharmacy door.

            Jeno jammed his hands in his pockets and blew out a long breath, watched it puff in front of him and bit his lip. In the distance, he could hear chatter building, and he glanced over his shoulder.

            He blinked at his friends as they slowed beside him. Donghyuck rolled his eyes. “You’re here early.”

            Jeno stared. “You’re here, period. Why?”

            Mark tilted his head, and he looked kind of like a lost golden retriever. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

            Something very strange and very worrying was happening in Jeno’s chest, confusion and fear and an onslaught of other emotions mixing and pulling tight at his heart. He coughed. “Because, um. Actually—What’s going on is—”

            Jaemin appeared out of nowhere, and slung an arm around Jeno’s shoulders. He grinned up at him, but it was kind of predatory, like a shark. Renjun’s voice echoed in his head— _Jaemin knows martial arts._

Jeno had come to the plaza expecting to watch a movie with his crush, and now there was a considerable chance he was going to be judo flipped by his crush’s friend. His luck was almost ridiculously terrible.

            Donghyuck caught his eyes, raised an eyebrow just slightly, a silent question. Because he caught everything, and because he cared about everything, and Jeno almost reached out to pull him into private and tell him the truth so he could just go home and stop feeling like a stop sign.

            Jaemin cleared his throat. “We’re all watching a movie together. Friendship building exercises. Surprise!”

            And suddenly, he understood. It was hurt giving way to acceptance, which gave way to a kind of cynical self deprecation. He should’ve known, he should’ve at least _tried_ to prepare himself for the possibility of this happening. The way he was feeling right now was one hundred percent his fault, because in all of his analysis, he’d never once factored in Renjun’s kindness.

            He’d promised to do this, and so he’d had to. But that didn’t mean he had to spend time alone with Jeno, unless he absolutely had to, because hatred was the sort of thing that lingered in homes and lingered in people, leaving traces of red and black years after it’d left. It’d been a month; Jeno was presumptuous at best, and stupid at worst.

            Jeno registered the presence at his left side too late, a small flinch running through his body when Renjun reached out and tapped his fingers. It was purposeful without being flashy, and when Jeno looked over, he offered a small smile.

            He should’ve just fucked up the presentation and lived with the consequences.

            _Are you okay?_ he mouthed, and when Jeno didn’t answer, he leaned up and whispered the same words into his ear.

            “I’m fine,” he murmured back, and his voice stayed smooth. “Why’s everyone here?”

            Renjun shrugged, but it was an uneasy movement, sharp and brief. “Jaemin insisted on it.”

            He looked up at him then, and there was something quiet and apologetic in his eyes, and—whatever. Jeno could doze off for entire lessons, he could spin silence out of shouting, and, if he really tried, there was no reason why he couldn’t just forcibly ignore the presence of their friends. It wasn’t like it’d be hard; Renjun tunnel vision always had its perks.

            “What are we watching?” Jisung called, because he didn’t give a fuck about failed romances.

            Renjun looked up at him, waiting. He blinked back at him. “Wait, me? I’m deciding?”

            “Why not?”

            Jeno glanced up at the list of titles, and found that he recognized none of them. “Um… Bad House 3?”

            “Who the fuck names a movie ‘Bad House’?” Chenle muttered to Jaemin.

            “Language,” the other said, but his expression said something different.

            Donghyuck folded his arms. “I don’t like horror—”

            Mark nudged him slightly, nodding obviously at Renjun and Jeno. “That looks like a good choice.”

            Jeno slid his gaze towards Renjun, a silent question in his eyes. The other boy pursed his lips but shrugged. In a voice almost too quiet to be audible, he said, “I like horror movies.”

            And it was decided.

            Jeno actually had a shit tolerance for horror, piteous on a good day, and he’d been meaning to pick another movie after the rest of the group shared his opinion but there was no point in it now. If he had to duct tape his fingers to his face halfway through the movie, well, he’d have to deal with that later.

            Jeno and Chenle stood in line for snacks while the rest of them got seats. He hadn’t known Chenle for long, and it was awkward, to say the least. He stared at the alternating tiles so he didn’t have to acknowledge the other’s intense stare.

            “So,” the other spoke up, when it became obvious Jeno wasn’t going to say anything on his own. “You like Renjun.”

            It was a painfully bare statement of it. Like every miniscule interlocking emotion that threatened to tear him apart when he just _looked_ at Renjun could be explained in three words, because it could. He swallowed and moved up in line. “I—Yeah.”

            “Hmm,” Chenle said, and nothing more. It was a nerve wracking thing to say, and Jeno was pretty sure he knew this. Somewhere in the back of his head, he came to terms with the fact that he’d be thinking about that ‘hmm’ for the next four weeks.

            When they got the front of the line, Chenle spoke first. “Can we get seven large popcorn buckets and four slushies? And Dibs.”

            Jeno nudged him lightly, and he blinked at him. “Who is paying for all of this?”

            He gave an angelic smile, and God, he really should’ve stayed at home. “Who else?”

            “Please hurry up,” the employee said, and Jeno quickly pulled the bills out of his wallet. They gathered the food in their arms and made their way over. It was easy to find their friends in the dark theater—they just followed the noise.

            “Well, maybe if you didn’t dig your fucking elbow into my shoulder—” Jisung groused at Donghyuck, and Jeno flicked him.

            “Language. Scoot over.”

            Jisung snorted at him. “Lover boy saved a seat for you. Have fun.”

            Jeno wasn’t sure what made his heart twist wrong, the words or the action itself. In the middle of the aisle, Renjun raised a hand, and he bit his lip before making his way over. The other boy didn’t look at him when he sat down, and in the sparse light of the theater, his expression was, for all intents and purposes, unreadable. “This is the best seat. Because you like horror movies, and all.”

            He heaved a sigh. He might as well get this out of the way now, so when he was latching onto him like a koala, there was less confusion. Just the same amount of awkwardness, though. “I’m actually terrified of horror movies.”

            Renjun stared at him and—even in the dark, he could see the faintest hint of confusion coloring his gaze. “What?”

            “I just picked the first movie I saw,” he said sheepishly. “Sorry?”

            He didn’t say anything, but the corner of his mouth was twitching in what was either a smile or a frown. Jeno couldn’t tell which. And before he could figure it out, Chenle settled into the spot beside Renjun. He met Jeno’s gaze over Renjun’s head, and he gulped.

            Renjun opened his mouth to say something, but the lights dimmed right then, and Jaemin nudged him from beside Chenle. “Quiet, the movie’s starting.”

            The movie went about as well as expected. Nobody knew how many times Donghyuck tried to kiss Mark, but the latter only screamed from surprise twice. Jisung played Clash of Clans on his phone, with the volume on full. Yukhei fell asleep ten minutes in, and Jaemin followed on his heels at a startling fifteen minutes.

            Jeno was proud of himself. He lasted twenty minutes before he clutched at the arm of his chair, twenty five before he curled into a ball, and thirty before he nudged Renjun. The other boy looked over, and where he expected to see exasperation, there was something—different. In the reflection of his eyes, Jeno could see the axe murderer on the screen, but for some reason, he wasn’t afraid.

            “Could I…” he trailed off, unwilling to explain that if he didn’t latch onto a living body or drop onto the floor and into the fetal position in the next thirty seconds, he’d probably pass out.

            Renjun laughed, but it was quiet, airy. Chenle shhed, loud and intrusive, and Jeno regretted asking. He whispered, “It’s fine.”

            But fine was a relative term, and even then, he was nowhere close to it. Ten more minutes ticked by, and on the screen, people were screaming and blood was being splattered and murder was being committed, and there was not enough popcorn in the world to make Jeno close to okay with this.

            He reached out an arm, and it was half a stretch, half an attempt at something impossible, something illegal in the delicate unwritten rules of their relationship, a law harder than anything he’d ever known before. His arm hovered over the back of Renjun’s seat, half a foot away from his back, and yet still too close.  

            Jeno felt a small stab of pain, and he glanced over. Chenle had slapped his arm, eyes narrowed. He mouthed, _I will shove a remote control down your mouth. Strike one._

Sophomores scared him.

            He waved his hand in assent and pulled it back, tucked it into his side. If he closed his eyes really tight and thought about good things, like sunflowers and puppies and his kittens at home, this would be fine. The screaming noises were just like, malfunctioning machines.

            Renjun nudged him first this time, brows drawn together. He said something, but it was too quiet for Jeno to pick up and he tilted his head in confusion. Renjun bit his lip in annoyance and leaned over and there were so many problems with him being this close, and behind him, he could already see Chenle planning his death and God, he _should’ve fucking stayed home._

“Are you okay?” he whispered. “You look kind of spooked.”

            Kind of spooked. _Kind of spooked._ Jeno was past spooked. He and spooked weren’t even in the same universe anymore. He forced a smile, and it must’ve looked pitiful because Renjun’s expression only betrayed a note of worry. “I’m peachy.”

            And if this was any other day, if Renjun was any kind of predictable, this was where it would end. But he shook his head, pushed the arm of the seat up and stuck out an arm, waiting. Jeno stared at him, lips parting. He was dreaming. He pinched his arm, and it hurt like a bitch, and no, he wasn’t dreaming, he was just crazy. All the pot had gone to his head, and he’d fucking lost it.

            Renjun raised an eyebrow, impatient, and—what the fuck was he _supposed_ to do? There was no Wikihow article for this. What would Donghyuck tell him to do? He glanced over his shoulder longingly, but the other boy was already gone, and he really didn’t want to think about the implications of that.

            He tapped Jeno on the shoulder, and he realized that he was still sitting there, unmoving save for the trembling with fear, as Renjun held an arm out. He tentatively reached forward and took the arm. Renjun shifted in the chair, but said nothing, turning his expression back to the movie. Only the heat of his skin betrayed anything at all, and really, that was easily attributable to the thermostat in the theater being broken.

            On screen, a side character was sliced to ribbons as the house hurled knives at them. Jeno turned to the side, curled his arms tight and shoved his face into Renjun’s shoulder without realizing. _Shameless._ He wondered if it was a character trait, or just a reaction to Renjun.

            The movie went by quickly after that. For some reason, burying his face in the corner of Renjun’s shirt was far more distracting than burying it into his own hoodie. Maybe it was because the cotton smelled like lavender and soap and sunlight, if sunlight even had a smell. His brain was a constant stream of screaming noises, because _this wasn’t how his Saturday was supposed to be going._

The credits rolled, and Renjun tapped at Jeno’s arm. He extricated himself from the other slowly, fully aware of his cheeks burning. He stared at the upholstery to avoid looking at him, but eventually he chanced a look up. Renjun had been talking to Chenle quietly—‘I’ll walk you to the library’—but at the movement in periphery, he glanced over and smiled.

            “Was this good enough?” he asked, unsure in a way that bordered on shy. Jeno’s heart clenched. This was just a favor in the end, just a reward. A transaction at best, and when Jeno handed him the near empty popcorn bucket, he hid his strained smile by looking down.

            “It was good,” he said quietly, and that wasn’t enough so he added, “I had a fun time.”

            “So did I,” Renjun said, and silence spread between them. The credits were still rolling; they’d gotten to the special effects department. Jeno had strong words for everyone employed there, and their feelings about fake blood.

            On Jeno’s right, Yukhei had woken up and was moving out of the row of seats with Jisung. Mark and Donghyuck were still nowhere to be seen. On Renjun’s left, Chenle had left, and Jaemin was standing at the end of the row, one hand on his hip. Jeno laughed, and it came out weird, stilted. “Bye?”

            Renjun blinked at him, eyes focusing. “Oh. Yeah, um. Bye.”

            They inched out of the row, both moving opposite ways. If this was a movie, there would be something charged about that, something symbolic. Film critics would analyze it, poring over the way Jeno’s gaze lingered on Renjun even when he descended the stairs. But it wasn’t, and Yukhei just bumped his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

            They left; the credits were still rolling.

 

            …

 

            When Monday came, everything was back to normal. Renjun wasn’t sure if that was a bad thing or not—wasn’t sure what he wanted from normal. But he’d come out alive on Saturday, and maybe that was enough.

            The week passed quickly. Tests were packed together, one after another, often in the same day. After so many years of the same routine, Renjun could detect the exact moment at which a teacher realized that they had a quarter of the material to cover with finals looming on the horizon.

            But he didn’t mind all the studying, it helped distract him. These days, there were a lot of reasons for him to need a distraction, a lot of realizations lined up in the corner of his head waiting to bloom into existence. Like dominoes, but more emotionally trying.

            The knock came the Sunday after, and he’d long forgotten the movies. He felt like he’d forgotten everything but the history of the women’s suffrage movement. Names swam through his head; he took a moment to try to discern the last time he’d eaten, and came up empty.

            The knock came again, quiet but insistent, and Renjun reluctantly peeled himself off the couch. He liked to study downstairs, when he could. The front of the house felt homier, with only a couple doors into the expansive, complicated corridors of the rest of it.

            Before Renjun opened the door, it came one last time, syncopated and yet forceful. He tugged the door open, and his arm fell to his side. The moon was out, but only a sliver of it shone, and it cast the street in a cream glow. The porch lights were out, and the yard was dark and shadowed. There was something still in the air, still but not empty, breaths held and waiting, toeing the line between being contained and trapped.

            Renjun took a step forward, and the door was half open behind him. The figure in front of him was barely visible in the dark, form hunched and drawn together like it’d make him disappear. His head was turned down, and from where he was standing, he couldn’t make out his gaze, only the intensity of it.

            He was only dressed in a thin white t-shirt and jeans, a bag slung over one shoulder and his sneakers beat up and torn apart. From here, Renjun could make out a band-aid on his left elbow, a scab on the junction of his jugular and collarbone, but just that, only that. The thin moonlight and darkness of the yard rendered him a creature of angles and nothing more; for a moment, Renjun didn’t recognize him.

            But the moment passed, and hesitance surged inside him even as he moved forward. He put a hand on the other boy’s shoulder, where his shirt was pulled too far to the left, and his skin was warm, damp. His hair was wet against his forehead, curling against the nape of his neck, but the night air was cold, dry and stagnant. He thought to shake him, but even the touch had sent a flinch through him, one marginally more noticeable than the trembling wracking his body. So he rubbed his thumb against his clavicle, and used his other hand to turn his face up.

            His gaze was vacant; he stared at him, eyes dark and clear and utterly unreadable. Renjun rubbed his thumb against the cotton, against the skin under. “Jeno?”

            The word seemed to wake him up somehow, and even in the dark, Renjun could make out the faintest hint of recognition. Melancholy colored his eyes, a bone deep ache that was almost tangible in the air. That was all there was; sadness and recognition and a trace of hopelessness.

            Jeno moved before Renjun had the time to react, took a step forward and wrapped his arms around him. His face was warm against Renjun’s neck, hair still wet. This close, he could feel him trembling, could feel the way he shook against his neck.

            After a moment of confusion, he reached up and hugged him back, pulling him close. He felt impermanent like this, like a single wind would blow him away. And when he pulled back, whispered an apology beside Renjun’s ear as he dug his hands into his sides, the moonlight turned his hair silver.

            The bag on his shoulder swung against him, a soft thump, and Renjun blinked. The hug had shaken something loose from him, and he suddenly realized the implications of him being here and stood to the side. “Come in.”

            Jeno bit his lip, hesitant, then shifted the bag on his shoulder and ducked into the house. Renjun slipped past him and shut the door, rearranging his textbooks and notes so that they leaned against one arm of the sofa. “Uh, sit down. Have you eaten?”

            Jeno didn’t say anything for a moment, hovered in the entry way. He was still, but alive in a way that he rarely was, nervous energy holding him taut. There was something about him that reminded Renjun of prey, a deer in the headlights with its body poised to run. His lips parted, as if to speak, but then he pressed them shut and shook his head.

            Renjun nodded, resolute, and steadied himself against the arm of the couch before walking towards the kitchen. Jeno held an arm out, stopped him with two fingers brushed against the side of his arm. “Stop, Renjun.”

            His voice was quiet, rasping from disuse. Renjun took a moment to let his heart calm, and then turned towards him. “What?”

            Jeno’s gaze snapped down, and he brought his hands together, rubbed his thumb against the base of his wrist. “You don’t need to make me anything. I’m not hungry.”

            Renjun swallowed a snort, smoothed out his voice as best as he could. “It’s nearly midnight.”

            “I’m not,” he repeated, and there was a hint of a plea there, stretching his words into something unfamiliar. “I just—”

            “What?” he asked quietly, and took a step towards him. “Why did you come here?”

            A couple inches of hardwood separated them; Renjun could see his chest rise and fall, could see water drip against the side of his neck, could see him swallow, hard. His words, even in the near silence of the house, were almost inaudible. “I don’t—I can’t say. I just wanted to—see you, I guess.”

            And it was a lie, and Renjun knew it because he’d lied like that so many times before. The words didn’t fit together right, betraying all that he’d left out. There was truth there, a hint of a truth that he wasn’t willing to explain, and yet Renjun couldn’t tell what part of it was truth and what was lie.

            It didn’t matter. “Even if you’re not hungry, you should still eat.”

            Jeno’s shoulders heaved up and down, resignation written into his frame. Renjun reached out and tapped his fingers against his arm. “You should take a seat. Leave your bag by the table. The remote’s on the stand.”

            The other boy did as he said, took a seat without making a noise. He seemed smaller, like all of his bravado and all of his humor, when taken away, accounted for ninety percent of his body mass. Now, he was just skin and bones and the cupcake band-aid lined up between the top of his spine and his shoulder.

            Jeno glanced up, and Renjun turned away and into the kitchen, cheeks burning. He pressed his back against the opposite wall, tilted his head back and watched the moon through the other window. Nothing about this made sense; even when he wracked his brain, he couldn’t come up with any explanation for this, any rationalization for why he was here and why he was like this. But he figured he could find out later; it wasn’t his business in the slightest.

            The money jar was in the second cupboard down, and a streak of lime paint covered the knob. He pulled it out and set it on the counter, and swore under his breath. There were a handful of dollar bills, and a couple of quarters.

            When they’d started this, the agreement—in which he’d had no say—had been that they gave him money for the living expenses every month, on the first, with no fail. But the agreement had never been a priority of theirs, not when held in comparison to their other responsibilities. Renjun was a bullet point on a list, a banner on their phones to which they always responded with ‘Remind Me Later’. And maybe once, it had hurt, but now it didn’t, just left a sour ache, a sharp bitterness in his throat, because of all the times for him to be out of money, this had to be the worst.

            He rooted through the other cupboards, glancing through the pantry. Nearly everything was empty—they only left him enough to last half the month, and even when he spent frugally, it was never enough. There was a single packet of ramen in the corner of one cabinet, and he reached up, pulled it out with some difficulty.

            Renjun poured water into a pot and set it on the stove before poking his head back into the living room. Jeno had turned on the television, and SpongeBob was playing, tinny voice reverberating through the house. He’d pulled up his knees, but even then, Renjun could make out the corners of his mouth turned up.

            He ducked back into the kitchen; the water was boiling. Renjun dropped the noodles into the pot and waited, leaned back against the nook table and took a deep breath. He had an exam tomorrow—he’d have to sleep through Lit or gym, at the least. Maybe both.

            The smell shook him out of his reverie, and he took it off the stove and poured it into a bowl before carrying it out to the living room. Jeno glanced up as he placed the bowl on the coffee table. His eyes were dark, inquisitive. “Aren’t you going to eat anything?”

            Renjun thought of the pantry and lied, “I’ve already eaten.”

            Jeno intertwined his hands, pulled his knees down. His mouth quirked to the side in thoughtfulness. “I’ll eat it, then. Thank you.”

            “You’re welcome,” he said, and hoped the crossness masked the relief. He nodded at the books against the side of the couch. “I’m gonna study on the floor, tell me if you need anything.”

            Hours passed like that, Renjun working through his textbook as the light of the television cast the paper in a bluish hue. In front of him, Jeno ate wordlessly, with the quiet and speed of a starved man. But maybe that was just his insatiable appetite.

            Jeno fell asleep first, cheek pressed against the curve of his hand as he tipped to the side. His head hit the arm of the couch with a muffled thump, and the rest of him followed as he stretched out slowly. He looked strangely peaceful, but the dim light of the living room illuminated the dark circles under his eyes. Renjun bit his lip, and looked down at his textbook and back up at Jeno.

            He got up with a small huff, taking care to be quiet when he pulled the throw blanket off the armchair. Jeno didn’t stir, even when he draped the blanket over him and pulled it up to his neck. His skin was still warm to the touch, but it had dried in the time that’d passed. Renjun took a breath, and found it unsteady for no particular reason.

            He sat back down at the table and tried to focus on his textbook fruitlessly. The words swam in front of his face, and he was out within twenty minutes.

 

            …

 

            When Jeno woke up, the sun was still low in the sky. It took him a few seconds to realize where he was, to realize everything that had happened last night. It built in his head, crowding against his skull until he couldn’t breathe. He pressed his fingers to his heart, skin against skin, and counted his heartbeat until it passed.

            Renjun had left at one point, and his study materials were carefully cleaned up, highlighters organized on the top of the table and backpack leaned against the side. The remote was back on the stand, and the bowl of soup had disappeared. Faintly, he could hear the sound of water running, the sound of dishes clattering together against stone.

            Jeno pulled himself to his feet, and it was a strained movement, stiffness making pain shoot through his body. He tugged his bag away from where it was curled against the leg of the couch and shifted it onto his shoulder. He pulled his phone out and there were five messages from Jisung, and two from Mark, and one from Donghyuck. Yukhei was away for the week, and Jeno swallowed hard when he thought of what he’d come back to.

            He typed a quick reply to each of them separately, and clicked his phone off. It was cold against his skin; he felt like he might burst into flame, even though the room was deathly cold.

            “Jeno?” He glanced up and sure enough, Renjun was leaned against the kitchen door. He wiped his hands against his jeans. “You’re awake.”

            He shifted on the hardwood and swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

            Renjun worried his lip. “Do you want—”

            “Thanks, but—” he cut off, blinked at him. “You can go first.”

            Renjun gave a tight smile and walked forward, took a seat on the arm of the couch. “I have early start, so I need to leave in ten minutes, but you can stay as long as you want before you need to leave for first period. There’s some cereal in the cabinet, if you want it.”

            Jeno exhaled, and it came out not quite steady. “You’ve done enough, really, I don’t want to impose—”

            “You’re not imposing,” he said, frowning. “It’s just cereal.”

            His heart was beating too hard, and his chest felt too flimsy, too weak to handle it all. “I know, it’s just. It’s fine, seriously. I need to drop this off at Mark’s—” he cut off and gestured at his bag, “I’ll get something to eat there. Thank you so much for—everything.”

            Renjun’s gaze softened. “It’s no problem.” There was a beat of awkward silence, Jeno’s feet already pointed at the door, and then he added, “Make sure you eat, I’ll see you in gym.”

            He disappeared into the kitchen without another word and Jeno breathed out. Guilt ate at him; there was no reason for him to be here, there was no reason for Renjun to have let him in last night. But he had, and somehow that hurt more.

            Jeno straightened up and moved to leave. The sun was barely out, outside, and it tore at him for some reason, a fraction of a memory he couldn’t remember. He shut the door behind him, gently, and tried to forget.

            But his memory was a stubborn thing, and he didn’t, turning the night over and over until it grew worn. For some reason, it didn’t anger him.

 

            …

 

            The first snow came early that year.

            Jeno hadn’t expected it, but when he left English, the cement was speckled in white. He moved to hold out his hand, then stopped.

            The trees were bare at this point, dead leaves scattered on the pavement around them, but the branches were still long and twisting. Renjun stood in the corridor between the library and Science building, branches hooked over his head. He was a couple feet away, far enough that he didn’t notice Jeno but close enough that he didn’t feel too bad about staring.

            His head was tilted up, eyes closed and mouth twisted in thought. One hand was outstretched, and snowflakes dotted his cheeks, and then his fingers. Jeno exhaled, and he realized he hadn’t breathed for close to a minute.

            Jeno knew Renjun was beautiful—he’d known this for months, practically the first thing he’d learned about him. But at one point, it’d started to fade into the background, a constant of his life. The slope of his cheekbones was no longer something that made his heart race, not out of a sense of disillusionment but rather, familiarity.

            But right now, he felt like he was seeing him for the first time, the wan sunlight and cold turning his skin pale. Jeno bit at his lip. He felt like if he stared for one moment more, he could commit this all to memory. He wasn’t an artist by any means, but if he was, he would paint this over and over until it covered every wall of his house.

            The warning bell rang, and Renjun blinked up, eyes snapping open. He stayed like that for a moment, then dusted himself off and turned towards the main building. Which was right behind Jeno. He averted his gaze to the library, as if he was just observing the hours listed on the window.

            Renjun tapped his shoulder, and his fingers were cold. He shuddered from the chill and glanced over at him, tried to force a smile. “Hey.”

            The other boy nodded at the building. “We have class.”

            “Yeah, I-I know,” he said, tripping over his words. There was a snowflake on his jaw, and he was distracted. He was staring; he knew this, and yet it was impossible to stop—every time he pulled his gaze back to Renjun’s eyes, it dropped lower in a matter of seconds.

            Renjun tilted his head. “Is there something on my face?”

            Jeno blinked. “Well, um.” He reached out and brushed it off his skin, quick and yet not quick enough, because his face still burned. His cheeks were warmer than his fingers, the snowflake half melted against his skin.

            His lips had become a straight line, trembling with laughter. “Thanks. Qian’s gonna kill us.”

            “He’s too tired,” he said, and blew out a breath. It puffed in the air.

            Renjun bit back a small laugh. “You’re not wrong.” When he started off towards the building, he glanced over his shoulder. “You’re not coming?”

            Jeno toed at the cement. Truancy was never something he was enthusiastic about passing up, but for some reason, Econ felt more interesting at this point in time. He didn’t have the time to think about what that meant about his crush. Operation: Grow A Fucking Brain was in terrible shape.

            “I am,” he said, and followed him in.

 

            …

 

            Finals week was hell. Renjun knew this, and he’d always known this, and there was no reason, logically, for it to be anything less than one of the worst weeks of the year. But this year, it wasn’t, because Lee Jeno’s existence was not something that the universe had factored in when trying to ruin Renjun’s life.

            It started like this, Friday afternoon the week before. He was at the library; there was no reason for him to go home. Sitting in awkward silence with a bunch of strangers was preferable to the cold emptiness of his house. Stacks of textbooks and folders and notebooks surrounded him. It felt like a small castle, a defense of sorts, but he wasn’t sure what it was meant to be against.

            He was holding the side of his face up with one hand, and his nails were digging into the skin under his eye. _I’m going to fall asleep,_ he thought, seconds before he slumped against the paper.

            He woke up to a thud on the table, and cold against his side. He licked his lips and shook himself out before slowly, painfully, dragging himself off the textbook. Jeno was leaned against the table, eyeing the stacks balefully. “Do you really need _all_ these books?”

            Renjun snorted, voice slow from sleep. “No, I just put them there to make myself feel better about not getting any work done.”

            Jeno nodded, as if this was a valid explanation, and nudged a carton of banana milk towards him. “Here. To avoid any naps.”

            He raised his eyebrows. “Banana milk doesn’t have caffeine.”

            “I thought you didn’t like caffeine,” he said, but there was a hint of uncertainty in it, and he stared at the carton like if he stared intensely enough, it would cease to exist.

            “I don’t,” he said, and stuck the straw in the container of milk before taking a sip. He made a satisfied noise and smiled at him. “Thanks.”

            The tips of Jeno’s ears went red. “You’re, um, welcome. I should—” he pointed helplessly at the door like it’d save him.

            Renjun frowned before he realized it, then flattened his mouth. “Yeah, I’ll see you later.”

            Jeno gave a small, fleeting smile, and that was enough to wake him up fully. He waved, brief and insistent, before running out the door.

            Renjun stared at his desk, at his textbook, then at the banana milk. He couldn’t easily say that he wasn’t disappointed, but that was probably out of loneliness. Even his textbook stacks weren’t proper company; they just temporarily tamped down the bone deep weariness. He took another sip of milk, and tried to ignore it.

            Then it was Monday evening, and he couldn’t ignore something when it forcibly shoved itself into his life, over and over, like a sentient wrecking ball. Today, Jeno was wearing a hoodie that swamped him. Renjun didn’t know if it had always been too big; he felt like he’d seen it before, and back then, it’d fit properly. He tried not to stare at the hollows of Jeno’s collarbones, the shadows of his cheekbones and the way his wrist seemed concave at points.

            (That night, he went over to Jaemin’s, and asked for leftovers. His mom was enthusiastic, since Renjun had never _asked_ for any food before—it’d made his pride ache a little too much. He left the food outside Jeno’s locker in the morning, hiding behind the side of the lockers when he saw him climb up the stairs. They never talked about it; Renjun didn’t know if he even knew who’d given it to him. But he’d put the Tupperware containers in his locker. Small victories.)

            “Hi,” Jeno said briefly, offering a small smile brighter than the fluorescent lights above them. Renjun’s exams felt insignificant in the face of that, but he glanced down at his notes anyway.

            “Hi,” he said, scraping his eyes across the notebook and absorbing absolutely nothing. “Why are you here?”

            “Felt like studying,” he said, after a small pause. When he next spoke, Renjun could hear the smile in his voice and it made his chest do some unrecognizable thing, akin to opening your eyes in saltwater. “Thought it would be more fun with a study buddy.”

            Renjun couldn’t help the way his mouth quirked to the side. “Is that what we are now? Study buddies?”

            Jeno tugged at the drawstrings of his hoodie. “I mean, the term’s kinda relative, but like, if you want to, maybe—”

            “I like it,” he said, and Jeno shut up. Renjun didn’t think he’d ever seen someone stop talking that quickly—his teeth clacked together. “I like the term. We can be study buddies.”

            He smiled, and it was worn on the edges, relief and nerves unraveling it. He pulled a single notebook and a couple of textbooks out of his bag and stared at them for what felt like minutes.

            Renjun raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you going to, um… study?”

            Jeno folded his arms. “Yes.” He flipped open to a random page, and stared at it for a few seconds before giving up. He put his hands on his face and made a frustrated noise, muffled by his fingers. “I’m gonna go get us some drinks.”

            He came back a few minutes later, an energy drink and a carton of milk tucked in the crook of his elbow. Renjun reached forward and picked the milk out, ignoring the way it was still faintly warm.

            “Studying,” Jeno muttered, taking a seat and resolutely opening his notebook. “I can do this.”

            This time, he got pretty far before having to stop, the spiral binding of his notebook pressed against his cheek. Renjun checked his phone—two hours. A small miracle, maybe. Jeno shifted against the table, and the spirals dug into his cheekbone. Renjun winced in sympathy and reached over, slowly pulled the notebook out from under his face. His head thudded against the wood, and he winced again, reached around his chair to get his jacket and slid it under him. His lips pressed tight before he tugged on the jacket, held it close. Renjun mentally said goodbye—he was never getting that jacket back. It should’ve made him feel a stab of bitterness, but—there was nothing. He didn’t dwell on it.

            Renjun finished studying less than half an hour after that. He couldn’t stay even if he wanted—the library was minutes from closing. He took a few minutes to carefully dismantle his towers of paper and shove his books back into his bag. Across the table, Jeno was still asleep, his chest rising and falling with every slow breath. There was a small bit of drool on his bottom lip, and Renjun considered the pros and cons of spontaneous combustion.

            He slung his bag over his shoulders and pushed his chair in quietly, as to not wake Jeno. It was redundant; he walked over to the other side of the table and rubbed the crook of his shoulder once before shaking him lightly. “Jeno. Jeno, wake up.”

            The other boy didn’t wake up, just rubbed his cheek into Renjun’s jacket and sighed. Renjun swallowed a huff of frustration, and shook him again, marginally rougher. “The library’s gonna close, _wake up.”_

Jeno had no respect for the library staff; he ignored him entirely. Renjun blew out a long sigh. A single mind goblin was suggesting that he walk out, let him be shaken awake up by the (considerably less gentle) librarian. But for some reason, the thought only brought a kind of amusement—not because the scene was funny, but because it was painfully unlikely.

            He sighed again, cross, and tugged Jeno to his feet. He was considerably lighter than he’d been in October, all loose cotton and angles shoved against Renjun’s side. Jeno’s things were still spread across the table, and Renjun let him fall back into the chair for a moment so he could clean them up.

            If any of their friends saw them walking out of the library, Renjun would’ve been in a world of trouble. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to live it down. Renjun’s arms were wrapped around Jeno’s side, keeping him upright at the expense of his own stability, and both of their bags were precariously held on Renjun’s right shoulder. At this point, he was functioning on sheer willpower.

            Renjun had considered taking him home, but for some reason, the thought made him sick. He’d only seen Jeno’s mom for a moment, but their dynamic hadn’t sit quite right with him, like two negative poles pushing against one another. He settled for tugging him to the front of the school, where a rack of skateboards greeted them. He laid Jeno against the side of the rack, and pulled his jacket from under Jeno’s arm, draping it over him.

            There was something pitiful about his handiwork, so he pulled a notebook out of his bag and ripped a sheet out before scrawling an apology on it—with a reprimand, for good measure—and laid it beside him. He folded his arms again, huffed, because he felt like he’d earned the right, and started home.

            Halfway home, he realized that he’d left their drinks in the library.

 

            …

 

            Exams ended, and Renjun basked in the short reprieve. It didn’t last long though—his parents were insistent on coming home for the holidays. That being said, they were never on time, and never there for long. But for some reason, each second they spent at home turned into a century. It was the only time of the year when their house felt suffocating.

            Renjun avoided them as long as he could. They came home on Christmas Eve, but didn’t speak to him until the next morning, over breakfast. Even then, he managed to escape with little damage.

            Living in the house year-round gave him an advantage. He could read the creaks of the house, hear the rhythm of their steps. They, on the other hand, didn’t notice if he’d entered a room unless he spoke, and even then, it wasn’t guaranteed. It made pride and shame mingle in his chest, like that meant anything at all. He felt childish at times like this, unbearably puerile under their gazes.

            Christmas dinner was nonnegotiable, though. His parents either couldn’t cook or didn’t have the initiative to try—he’d never known which. Renjun took a seat at the dinner table and picked at the store bought chicken.

            His parents were chattering softly about something—he couldn’t tell what. It might’ve been the economy, or the media, or their friends. His skin felt tight; just being here made him uncomfortable. He took a deep breath, and it didn’t come out quite right, but they glanced over at him all the same.

            “Renjun,” his mother said. “How’s school going?”

            “Fine,” he said, and chewed on a small bite of chicken. It tasted faintly like cardboard.

            “What does _fine_ mean?” his father cut in, dismay hardening his voice. He felt a flare of impatience, considered leaving the table and going to bed.

            “I have good grades,” he said tightly. “All As.”

            “College apps?” his mom asked, dismissive at best.

            “Finished them in November.”

            Silence for a moment, heavy and asphyxiating, and then his father added, “What about your GPA?”

            Renjun bit his lip. “4.62.”

            His mother exhaled loudly, and it was almost too much. Fear and anger kept him stationary and yet almost painfully full of energy. He thought he might pass out; he thought he might run until he passed the city limits, until he found himself in a different state. His pride ached, anger coiling in his chest.

            His father made a tsking sound. “That’s why you shouldn’t have taken that doodling class. If you were so interested in art, we could’ve gotten you a teacher. What a strange new interest, and this late too!”

            Renjun had been painting since second grade. He took a sip of water. “Is that all?”

            _“Is that all?”_ his mother repeated, folding her arms and frowning. To her, every word was wrong, a challenge waiting to be acted upon. Sometimes, he felt like she would prefer it if he never spoke at all. “This is your _future,_ Renjun. You should take it seriously.”

            And that, that felt like the last straw. It was hard to take your future seriously when no one around you had ever tried to. It was hard to take anything seriously, sometimes. He could do anything, probably, and they wouldn’t even notice. He could get expelled, he could drop out, he could run away. Maybe, after a couple months had passed, he’d get scraped off the will. Nothing more.

            There was no point, and yet he couldn’t help trying. He heaved a deep breath and put his fork down. “I’m not hungry. I’m going to bed early.”

            There was a tiny bit of him that almost wanted them to make him stay, to tell him to sit down and eat. He kind of wanted them to yell at him, just so he’d know what it felt like. It was curiosity, mixed with a complete lack of self preservation, mixed with a kind of anger, quiet and dark and caustic.  

            His father pulled out his phone and checked his email, and his mother stared through him for what felt like forever. Then she looked down at her food, and continued eating. Renjun breathed through his nose.

            He went up to his room, steps thudding on the stairs. Something about the room angered him, the neatness of it and the quiet. It was so _fucking_ quiet—if someone dropped a pin, he’d have heard it hit the floor.

            But no one did, and the silence in his head grew louder. He pressed two fingers against his temple and rubbed, tried his best to alleviate the coming migraine. It was futile; when he took a seat on the bed, the room spun around him.

            He pulled his phone out of his khakis, taking a small moment to admire the stupidity of wearing fucking khakis to dinner. No one was even over—they’d just made him wear them for the sake of it, and he hadn’t even fucking complained. Renjun sent a brief text to Jaemin, praying to God he hadn’t left his phone in the washing machine again.

           

            **renjun _[7:23 P.M.]:_** hey

 

            **jaemin _[7:26 P.M.]:_** hey?

 

            **jaemin _[7:26 P.M.]:_** did ur parents do smth again

 

            **renjun _[7:27 P.M.]:_** …how did you know

 

            **jaemin _[7:28 P.M.]:_** let’s call it a lucky guess

 

            **renjun _[7:28 P.M.]:_** could you pick me up

 

            **jaemin _[7:28 P.M.]:_** and take u where exactly?

 

            **renjun _[7:28 P.M.]:_** i don’t care

 

            **jaemin _[7:29 P.M.]:_** u can’t NOT care what if i drop u off in the woods

 

            **renjun _[7:29 P.M.]:_** better than this fucking house

 

            **jaemin _[7:29 P.M.]:_** jesus they really fucked up this time huh

 

            **jaemin _[7:30 P.M.]:_** give me ten minutes… try not to commit arson while i’m driving over xo

 

            He swallowed hard and tossed his phone against his pillow. Downstairs, he could hear his parents, faintly. The topic of conversation had changed again, easily. Renjun stared at the wallpaper until his eyes ached, and then let them fall closed. Jaemin was going to be here in—what, four minutes? Renjun had to change; he was content to rot away in a forest for the rest of his short life as long as he wasn’t wearing these fucking khakis.

            His clothing choice was a bit—there was really no way to say it kindly. Petty was the only word that came to mind, because his rational thinking had been replaced by a gaping hole, an emptiness and a fury that seemed connected at the metaphorical hip. If this was teenage rebellion, it felt a lot worse than he’d expected it to feel. There was less freedom, more bitterness; less exhilaration, more weariness.

            His phone buzzed—Jaemin. Renjun slipped it in his pocket and left for the front door. At the hallway beside the dining room, he paused. It was responsible to tell his parents where he was going—it was decent, common sense in its most basic form. But he had a feeling they wouldn’t notice either way.

            Outside, the moon was high in the sky. Jaemin’s shitty hand me down Camry was idling at the curb, and he had one window rolled down. The faint sound of Red Velvet was trickling out into the street, and it brought a small smile to Renjun’s face.

            He shut the door as quickly and as gently as he could, and then jogged down to the car, knocking at the other window. Jaemin leaned over and unlocked it, and he pulled himself in with one arm. They sat in silence for a few minutes, only the sounds of their breathing and the kpop on Jaemin’s iPod audible.

            Renjun took a deep breath and, before Jaemin could say anything, said, “Not talking about it.”

            “Not talking about it,” Jaemin repeated, an agreement, then added, “Where are we going, though?”

            “Is your place free?” he asked, leaned his back against the car door. The moonlight came in through the open window and cast Jaemin in shades of white and silver.

            He snorted. “It hasn’t been free since finals week. I have three aunts and a cousin twice removed in my room—my mom’s on the verge of asking me to sleep in the cleaning closet.”

            Renjun winced. “Okay, so not your place. Christmas parties?”

            Jaemin raised his eyebrows. “One, you’ve got another thing coming if you think I’m letting you go to another party in the next three months. Two, none, unless you count Jihoon’s. We’re not going to Jihoon’s, by the way.”

            “Wasn’t going to ask,” he said easily, but he couldn’t deny that there was a tightness spreading in his chest. Like the one from before, but cold where the other one had been too warm to handle. At this point, dropping him off in the woods seemed a valid option.

            The other boy cocked his head, eyes scraping across his face because to him, Renjun was an open book. “There’s—actually one party that I just remembered. Not a party, more like a get together, but close enough. I was planning to head over there, actually.”

            Something in his voice unsettled Renjun. Hesitance, if anything, and Jaemin was never hesitant. “Where?”

            Jaemin rolled up the windows and turned up his music. “You’ll see.”

 

            …

 

            Jeno had helped Mark set up for the party, which was not usually something he’d regret because, well, _friendship._ But now he was seeing the latent cons of his choice, because it was almost ten, and he had no idea when he’d started drinking and no idea how much he had drunk, and everything was warm and fuzzy.

            The knock came when Jeno was on his umpteenth mug of eggnog, staring at the television vacantly. One of the Home Alone movies was playing, the good one, and he was caught up in trying to pinpoint exactly which one that was. The knock came again, and Donghyuck swore at his dessert. Was it a dessert? It looked like a dessert, overly sugary and potentially lethal. He yawned and took another sip of eggnog. _You are what you eat, I guess._

The knock came again, or at least half of it sounded before the door swung open and the air was filled with Donghyuck’s pissed off voice slowly transitioning into his drunk, affectionate one. And then another voice joining him, and—Jeno’s brain struggled to put this together. That was Jaemin, and if it was Jaemin, then he might have brought—it was a dumb idea. Jeno chided himself. There was an equal chance that he’d brought Chenle, and a chance that he’d come alone.

            But then they moved past the doorway, into the living room. Donghyuck waved at the couch. “Get comfy, Mark’s still making shit because he wants to make this perfect. Jeno, make some fucking space, Jesus Christ. Yeah, let me clean this up—one second—there’s really more space than it looks like, Jeno just hogs the entire couch for no reason.”

            Someone sat down beside him. Jeno tried desperately to try to calculate the probability that it was Renjun, if there’d been two pairs of footsteps. Twenty five percent? Thirty percent? A voice told him it was fifty percent, and then the faint scent of lavender and detergent hit his nose and—hundred percent. Hundred percent seemed likely.

            Donghyuck and Jaemin disappeared into the kitchen, their voices fading as the moments went by. There was a beat of silence, and on the television, Jeno could see a figure that looked vaguely like Donald Trump. God, he was so fucking drunk.

            “Hey,” Renjun said. His voice was quiet, because it was always quiet if he wasn’t yelling at Jeno, but it was different, somehow. He filed that away for later, because even at his mental peaks, he couldn’t manage to read the enigma that was Huang Renjun. Ogling him drunk until he managed to put together some basic piece of information about his mood was probably not going to do fantastic things for their friendship.

            “Hi,” Jeno replied, and the word came out relatively stable. He gave himself a mental pat on the back. He took a sip of eggnog and mumbled in the cup, “Why’re you here?”

            The other boy shrugged. “Actually, I don’t know. Maybe because it looks like a decent place to celebrate Christmas at.”

            Jeno knew he was embellishing for the sake of it—Mark’s old socks were hanging from the edge of the coffee table. So he just blew out a breath, prayed it didn’t smell too much like rum, and said, “Do you want eggnog?”

            Renjun blinked at him. “Yeah, but I can get it. I don’t think you should be on your feet.”

            He came back a few minutes—a few hours?—later with a mug of eggnog and a glass of water. He pushed the other at Jeno, and he stared at it for what seemed like forever. There was condensation on the edge, wet against Renjun’s fingers. “Take it.”

            Jeno took it, and stared a bit more. Renjun snorted, and when he looked up, he wasn’t even looking at him, gaze focused on the television. But there was something glassy, not quite there, about it and he glanced back at Jeno after a moment. “Drink it, Jeno. Sober up.”

            He frowned down at the glass and then downed it, because some dumb little voice inside him thought that that would look tough. It looked ridiculous, and he nearly spit it all out. Jeno forced himself to keep it down before sneaking a glance at Renjun. It might’ve been surreptitious, if he’d had the presence of mind to be secretive about it. But, as it was, it was painfully obvious.

            “How’s break been?” Renjun asked slowly, after some time had passed. Jisung had disappeared, Jaemin and Donghyuck were still in the kitchen, and Mark had melted into a puddle from overwork. Yukhei was getting more drinks, because they’d run out an hour ago. When Jeno had asked, slightly tipsy, where he was planning to get them, he’d said something suspiciously vague and, frankly, worrying about ‘a guy he knew’.

            The living room was empty, and yet, it still took a few minutes for Jeno to register that he was being spoken to. His head was clearing up at the speed of a snail, but any change was worth something. “Fine. ‘S fun, getting to sleep in. You?”

            Renjun hesitated, and, for the first time, Jeno could see him clearly. The small moment of clarity gave way to a set of mind numbing screaming noises, because—there were Christmas miracles, and then there was _this._ Jeno didn’t think he was the best seventeen year old in the world, but between losing his free period and making a fool of himself over and over (and over and over) and—the last month in general, he felt like he’d gotten his comeuppance. There was no reason, no logical reason, for Renjun to be dressed like that, but he was, and Jeno came to terms with that excruciatingly slowly. In the meantime, Renjun looked through him, brows drawn together in thought. There was a streak of charcoal on the corner of his jaw. Jeno curled his nails into his palms and counted to ten.

            “Stressful, actually,” he said, passing a hand over the back of his neck and giving a small, nervous laugh. “Is that weird of me? I get more stressed when I have nothing to do. It’s like clutter, I think. Keeps you from realizing how much empty space there is.”

            “It’s not,” he said, with enough intensity that Renjun looked over at him. There was something strained in his gaze, like there always was when he spoke to Jeno. Like Jeno’s existence took something from him, like his presence was just too much to bear. He reached over and put his empty glass of water on the table before looking back at Renjun, and adding, “It’s not weird. It’s like—”

            He cut off, self conscious, but Renjun was still completely sober, and he blinked at him before waving for him to go on. Jeno coughed into his elbow and mumbled, “It kinda just feels like something you’d do.”

            Silence filled the room again, and Jeno was just nearing the level of sobriety at which he could _feel_ how painfully awkward the air between them was. He considered throwing himself out the window of Mark’s apartment, but figured that wouldn’t be strong enough. Renjun took another long, thoughtful sip of eggnog, and Jeno wished, not for the first time, that he could _understand_ all the different feelings written into that action. He opened his mouth to say something more, shifting the cup in his hand, but it was at that moment that the front door chose to swing open. Jeno was going to explain to Yukhei the concept of timing the next time they were alone.

            “I. Have. Liquor!” Yukhei shouted, and when everyone in the apartment got arrested for underage drinking, at least they knew who to blame. Shortly after his admission, Donghyuck ran out of the kitchen and pressed a hand to his mouth, shouting as he did it. Jaemin carefully extricated the brown paper bags from Yukhei’s hands and set them on the coffee table. He glanced between Renjun and Jeno, scrutinizing but annoyingly amused. There was a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

            “ _Where_ is Mark?” Jeno wondered aloud, and Donghyuck looked over at him.   “Someone’s finally sober,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Last I heard, he was looking for fairy lights in long term storage. But that was thirty minutes ago, so who knows.”

            Donghyuck took a seat between Renjun and Jeno, effectively splitting them up. On his left, Jaemin took a seat; on his right, Yukhei snuggled into Jeno’s side. Jisung slunk out of the hallways a few seconds later, staring at the beer until Jeno slapped his hand. He sat on Jeno’s other side, pressing him against the back of the couch.

            Home Alone was still playing. This guy had _shit_ parents, and from Jeno, that was saying a lot.

            “Well,” Donghyuck said, tapping a plastic fork against the wood of the coffee table, because Mark was broke. “We don’t have any presents, or any shit like that, but I love you guys. That’s the last time you’re gonna hear it until next year, same time, so savor the sound. I can repeat it, if anyone wants to record me.”

            “We’ll pass,” Jeno cut in, and Donghyuck glared at him.

            _“Anyway,”_ he continued, “As I was saying, before I was so _rudely_ interrupted, drinks are here, Mark’s missing, if you need to hurl, try to aim it away from any living things. Passing out is not appreciated, but if necessary, do it in that corner. Also, Mark might be nice enough to let you idiots stay the night, but everyone’s kicked out after ten A.M.”

            “Love you too, Hyuck,” Yukhei mumbled into Donghyuck’s hoodie. The latter shoved him off.

            “Fucking saps,” he muttered under his breath, but his cheeks, or at least the parts of them that Jeno could see, were reddening slowly.

            Mark showed up a couple hours later, soaked to the bone with absolutely no explanation. Donghyuck took a few minutes—upwards of thirty—trying to pull some information, and maybe an apology out of him. The latter just stared at the wall, occasionally shivering. Donghyuck finally gave up and bullied him into changing his clothes. They didn’t come out of his room for the rest of the night, and Yukhei waggled his eyebrows suggestively. Jeno knew that it was probably just exhausted napping, and maybe cuddling, if they had the energy for it.

            Instead of Donghyuck’s absence decreasing the space between Renjun and him, it made no difference at all. Jisung got up to get a snack, and replaced himself between Jeno and Yukhei, and at this point, he’d given up. It was fine, really. He’d seen Renjun in that outfit, admittedly for a few minutes tops, and he was perfectly okay with not seeing it for the rest of the night. He didn’t think his last brain cell could handle it, frankly, what with all the shit he put in his body.

            Jeno fully came to terms with it near two A.M. He’d accepted it—and now he was ready to fall asleep. But the universe bent around his wishes, contorted itself to fuck him over, and so, right as he felt his eyelids droop closed, Jaemin, Jisung, and Yukhei all got up. He wasn’t sure whether it was permanent or temporary, but after a few minutes more of silence and a cold absence at his side, it became obvious.

            He looked over—Renjun had fallen asleep already. His lips were parted, just slightly, and he almost wanted to shake him awake, tell him that bugs were going to get in his mouth like that. But he didn’t, just leaned against the arm of the couch and waited and watched and prayed for a meteor to strike him down so he didn’t have to live in the same universe as Huang Renjun anymore.

            Was it creepy to think that he was beautiful asleep? Maybe, but Jeno thought he was beautiful always. Asleep was simply a specificity added to it, like how leaves could be green and gold and red and brown from oncoming decay, and God, that was such a terrible fucking metaphor. Maybe that was what he got for not sleeping for three days straight, and lying to Renjun about it. Insomnia was a bitch.

            Renjun’s jean jacket had slid down on one arm, and he made a small noise of discomfort in his sleep, pulled himself tighter into a ball and shifted on the couch. Jeno blew out a breath. He could sit there for as long as he wanted, pretending he wasn’t going to do anything, but he’d get to it eventually. It was just a matter of how long it took him to accept how ridiculous he was.

            Mark’s closet was also a pantry, and also a great deal of other things that Jeno couldn’t even pretend to know. But on the top shelf, there was a couple of folded blankets, and he tugged one out carefully before returning to the couch and pulling it over Renjun. He wasn’t attached, just sympathetic. The aircon was on, for some reason, and Jeno’s feet were on the verge of going numb.

            Jeno stared at the couch for far too long. Sleeping on the couch was a painful notion; the concept of it was masochistic in itself. But Jisung was on the loveseat, and Yukhei had draped himself over the coffee table, and Jaemin was asleep on the inflatable mattress _,_ and this was the only place that was free. He considered sleeping in the bathtub, briefly, before knocking a hand against his head.

            He carefully climbed onto the couch and pressed his head against the arm opposite to Renjun’s. He could do this, if he took deep breaths and closed his eyes and generally ignored that the air smelled faintly of cinnamon, rum, and lavender. It wasn’t impossible, just—hard. Very hard.

            Jeno fell asleep like that; the clock ticking towards three A.M. mercilessly, and his eyes fixed on the way a lock of Renjun’s hair curled against the side of his cheek. Moonlight from the other window washed his face in shades of silver and, right before he fell asleep, he took a moment to think, _I’m fucked._

It wasn’t a new thought, but for some reason, it held more weight right then. Less a joke, and more a truth, engraved into his bones and sending an ache through his body. He was completely, utterly fucked, and yet when he closed his eyes, the corner of his mouth was quirked up.

 

            …

 

            When Donghyuck tentatively shut the door to Mark’s bedroom behind him the next morning and tiptoed into the living room, there were a lot of things he was expecting. His friends, passed out drunk. A permeating smell of alcohol. Maybe some vomit; maybe some questionably obtained objects.

            He didn’t expect to see Renjun and Jeno—well. He couldn’t even explain it, so he didn’t try. He crossed the space space between the coffee table and the floor on the other side and shook Jaemin awake. The other boy smacked his lips and then glared up at Donghyuck. “What?”

            “Get up, lazy bitch,” he muttered, looping his arms around Jaemin’s waist and tugging him to his feet. He hit him the entire way, mumbling about ‘disrespectful friends’.

            “So?” Jaemin said, after he’d recovered his breath and a sliver of his dignity. He was slightly breathless. “Why’d you wake me?”

            Donghyuck gave a small, triumphant smile, then jerked his head at the touch. Jaemin’s eyes widened. “Are they—”

            “Yeah,” he said quietly, almost under his breath. “They must’ve been wasted.”

            Jaemin shot a glare at him. “They’re tangled like earphone cords, and your first thought is that they were _wasted?_ Where’s the fun in that?”

            He raised his eyebrows. “Oh, of course. Because Jeno just valiantly and sentimentally confessed last night, at four A.M., with eggnog still on his breath, and then Renjun accepted graciously, and then they made out and fell asleep in a heap, because they could. That sounds perfectly valid and characteristic of our friends.”

            Jaemin crossed his arms. “Well, I, for one, _am a romantic._ So excuse me while I take several pictures of this—yeah, stand to the side, I mean it.”

            “Blackmail?” Donghyuck asked, unimpressed.

            “Blackmail,” he confirmed.

 

            …

 

            That morning, they’d woken up to the sound of snickering. But no matter how much Renjun threatened the rest of their friends, nor how much Jeno pleaded them, they refused to explain. It was kinda eerie, actually. Jeno had woken up on the loveseat, even though he could’ve sworn that he’d fallen asleep on the other couch. Maybe his memory was going.

            Either way, almost all of them had filed out at a quarter to ten. Yukhei had required a little extra help—Donghyuck had shooed him out with a broomstick. The rest of winter break passed in a haze of sleep, hanging out with his friends, and manic internet searches for a single word he couldn’t manage to remember. It was too cold to skateboard, and even if Jeno had had the dedication to try, the ground was heavy with graying snow.

            When it happened, he was exploring the Markets. They weren’t actually markets, just a tightly knit web of stores in the heart of the town. He rarely went down there without his friends, because pedestrians were equal parts grossly rich young parents and irresponsible teenagers. Jeno wasn’t sure if he qualified as an irresponsible teenager. He felt like stupid was a more apt descriptor.

            Jeno was dressed in a threadbare hoodie and his oldest pair of jeans, because he hadn’t done the laundry in an interminable amount of time. But after crossing the road, and starting down the busy street, he realized that that probably was not the best decision he’d ever made. Not the worst either, because he had an unexpected propensity for fucking himself over, but. Definitely up there.

            Renjun wasn’t dressed like he’d been at the party, but not quite the way he dressed at school either. His shoes were kind of worn, and his sweatshirt was decidedly several sizes too large. It looked like a hand-me-down, and his fingers were just barely visible at the edges.

            That being said, he looked a lot better than Jeno. He didn’t think he’d slept for the past four days, and Mark had taken him aside that morning, taken a few minutes to lecture him on the importance of sleep and the biology behind it. If he’d had the energy to pay attention, he might’ve, but as it was, he’d just stared at Mark blankly until he’d given up.

            Jeno stood in the middle of the sidewalk, considering his options. He could run in the opposite direction, but that would be way too obvious. He could try to casually slip past Renjun and pray he didn’t notice, but the other boy was extremely observant. He could hide in plain sight; just stand still, and close his eyes. Maybe people would think he was a statue.

            He let his eyes fall closed and began to turn slowly in the opposite direction. All he had to do was go slow, and—

            “Jeno?”

            Well, that was a bust.

            Jeno turned back around and offered Renjun a tight smile. “Hi!”

            Renjun rolled his eyes at the artificiality of it. “What’re you doing here? I haven’t seen you in the Markets before.”

            _What was he doing here?_ Suddenly, he couldn’t remember. Was he shopping? He didn’t have the money. Window shopping was always a good excuse, but Jeno didn’t have the self control for it. He forced a small laugh then jerked his head at the store beside him. “I’m—checking this place out?”

            Renjun raised his eyebrows. “Really? Is this your first time?”

            Jeno glanced over, eyes flitting over the front of the store, and tried to internalize as much of it as he could. It was all brick and fairy lights, and a glittering sign told him it was _Tartoise,_ a café. There was a small depiction of a turtle—or a tortoise, more likely—under the curling script, with a tart for a shell. It was all very cute and charming and probably far out of Jeno’s price range. He wondered absentmindedly about whether they had a dollar menu.

            “Yeah,” he squeaked out, when he regained control of his voice. “Do you have any recommendations? Like, cheap ones?”

            Renjun laughed, and maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea. Even if he ended up not ordering anything because of his crippling lack of funds, and embarrassed Renjun, and embarrassed himself, and had to go live in a hole for the rest of his life, at least he’d heard that one last time. His eyes were shining when he tore his eyes away from the storefront and glanced back at Jeno. “I know the owner, I go here a lot. I can get you a discount, maybe something free.”

            “Really?” he asked, and felt a faint stab of shame at how much raw desire weighed down his voice. “You don’t have to, like, you don’t owe me anything right now, seriously, like, I’m pretty sure I owe _you—”_

“I don’t mind,” he assured him. “They just make fantastic food, and I want you to taste it. No one should live their life without being aware of how good their chocolate tart tastes.”

            “That’s just your opinion,” a new, female voice groused. They both looked over; a blond head was sticking out of the door. She glared at Renjun. “We’re famous for the buttercream, I don’t want your boyfriend coming in with unrealistic expectations of dishes we don’t even specialize in.”

            She took a second to bob her head in a greeting at Jeno. He’d never seen someone take the time to acknowledge him but lace it with so much dismissiveness. “Hi boyfriend. I’m Chaewon, Renjun’s favorite employee. It’s nice to meet you!”

            Renjun screwed up his face. “He’s not my—”

            Without another word, she pulled herself back into the store and slammed the door. He stared at the door balefully, before glancing back at Jeno with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Chaewon’s very…” he waved his hands in explanation.          

            Jeno bit back a laugh. “Yeah, I noticed. You seem really close with her.”

            He cracked half a grin. “I know everyone there, Jaemin and Chenle and I hang out there a lot.”

            They stood in silence for a few minutes more, and then Renjun reached forward and pulled the door open, gesturing for him to go in. _He’s such a gentleman,_ he thought absentmindedly, and then immediately chided himself for it. Operation: Grow A Fucking Brain was hard enough without his constant commentary on why Renjun was maybe the best human being on Earth.

             The interior of the café was pretty similar to the storefront—a lot of hardwood and brick and rose gold decorations. Everything seemed awash in golden light, and there was a perpetual scent of sweet bread in the air. Renjun tapped his arm, and Jeno realized he’d just been hovering in the doorway for God knows how long.

            “Renjun, who’s your friend?” Jeno froze, because he had never bought into the idea that people could chirp, and yet the short girl behind the counter, pulling out a pastry with one arm, had literally chirped. He squinted at her, as if it’d just been a trick of his ear, but she continued speaking and he resigned himself to it.  “Is it the—”

            Renjun moved quicker than Jeno had thought he was capable of, sprinting towards the displays of pastries before pressing a single finger to his lips. There’d been feet between them, now there was inches. The girl nodded knowingly, gave a smile that was half a smirk but impossibly sweet, all sugar and spice. Then she cleared her throat. “Everyone’s out for the holidays, and Joo’s on break, so it’s just Chaewonnie and I. What can I get for you two?”

            Jeno tentatively closed the distance between them and stood behind Renjun, hesitant, to say the least. He leaned forward, and whispered, “How pricey is this place?”

            Renjun cocked his head and whispered back, “I’m paying for your food. No ifs or buts. You can pay me back later.”

            He frowned at him. “What if you lie about how much it costs?”

            He folded his arms. “Then you are just going to have to live with that. It’s a present, okay? Late Christmas present. Deal with it.”

            Jeno blew out a breath and waited as Renjun ordered for them. The girl pulled a couple of pastries out of the display and carefully organized them on a tray before handing them over. “Anything else?”

            Renjun tilted his head. “Nah, I think this is good.”

            The girl smiled and chirped, “Okay! It’s nice to meet you, my name’s Jiwoo.”

            Jeno smiled weakly. “I’m Jeno.”

            She gave a small, knowing grin, but didn’t say anything more, just skipped—she really did skip, he wasn’t lying—into the backroom. Renjun stared at the pastries for what seemed like forever. Jeno reached out and tapped him on the shoulder and he flinched, glanced back at him guiltily.

            Jeno didn’t have the time or mental strength to make the effort to analyze that. “We should, um—you know.”

            “Yeah,” he said, an exhale, and balanced the tray in one arm before leading Jeno to a small table in the corner. Two soft armchairs were seated around it, and Renjun looked at it fondly. “This is the table that we usually get.”

            _We?_ Jeno thought, and then realized. He wasn’t sure if he felt honored to be here with him, or uncomfortable. Like a fourth wheel to the palpable vestiges of Jaemin and Chenle in the air around the table.

            Regardless, he tentatively took a seat and poked at the tart in front of him. Renjun was watching him, gaze purposefully casual but intense all the same. He took a bite, fully prepared to fake a positive reaction, before sliding out of his chair.

            He felt boneless. His taste buds were screaming at him, and he was making _noises._ He thought he might pass out; he almost did. There was a soft sound of laughter in the air, and if Jeno had had the presence of mind to blush and lock it up in his head, he would’ve. There was a scuffle of movement beside him and then Renjun was knelt on the floor, only a sliver of his eyes visible. “Are you okay?”

            Jeno stared at him for a few seconds, because he could, and also because he didn’t trust himself to move. He pulled himself up to a sitting position and pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, to savor the taste. “Honestly, I don’t know. Is this what heaven tastes like?”

            Renjun’s lips were pressed tight, but his eyes were shining. “You’re so overdramatic.”

            He gave a small, satisfied smile, then said, “I’m not, I’m really not. That was amazing. Holy shit. Do you ever get used to it?”

            “Not really,” he said, folding his legs and leaning against the side of the arm chair. “I keep asking them what they put in it, but last time I asked, Jinsol said, ‘the souls of high school students’, so I don’t ask anymore. Did you like it?”

            Jeno shot him a disdainful look. “Did I _like_ it? I feel like my taste buds were all individually shot out of a cannon and into the stratosphere. _Like_ doesn’t cover it.”

            “Well, anyway,” he said, and it was unbearably cute. He was trying far too hard to be dismissive of his own pride, but he was practically glowing. He looked young like that, a shy smile twisting his lips.

            After a few minutes more, Jiwoo came out of the backroom and restocked the display. She stole glances at them periodically. Jeno felt like he was being judged somehow. The hardwood floors were very clean and comfortable.

            Renjun pulled himself up and back into his chair before tapping against the table. Jeno grumbled and stood too, before brightening at the sight of the pastries. He’d only had a single bite, so far.

            Out of a mixture of genuine adoration for the food and a desire to maybe spend the rest of his life in the café, he ate as slowly as he could. Renjun made conversation with him in the meantime. There was something weird about talking with him outside of school, and outside of the project and outside of their friends. Like they were different version of themselves, and the silent rules of their almost friendship didn’t apply. An alternate universe where everything was the same, except whatever they had wasn’t inevitably doomed. He took another bite of tart and chewed thoughtfully.

            Renjun was talking about something vaguely important—global warming or student council or the Gov homework that Jeno hadn’t started. “Jeno? Are you listening?”

            “I am, yes,” he lied. “Just. The tart, you know. Distracting.”

            To say that the pastry was the most distracting thing in the room right then was downright blasphemous, but Renjun just shrugged and nodded. “Honestly, makes sense.” He blinked at the empty plates. “How—how are you almost done?”

            “Beats me,” he said weakly, and shoved another forkful of tart in his mouth. He swallowed and added, “So what do I owe you?”

            Renjun folded his arms. “A favor. I’ll cash it out when I want.”

            Jeno made a face. “That’s not fair, dude. This is just going to weigh on me for the rest of my God given life. I’m going to be shitting, thinking, ‘I wonder if Renjun’s figured out that favor yet’. Do you really wanna be responsible for my constipation?”

            He wrinkled his nose. “One, I hate you. Two, it’s not going to be that bad. I’m nice.” As if to emphasize his point, he smiled, all teeth. Jeno felt reasonably tided over.

            “Whatever,” he snorted, stabbing at the tart and taking another bite. He pouted when he realized that it was one of the last. “Fuck, I’m almost done.”

            Renjun raised his eyebrows, but he was smiling. “You really like them, don’t you?”

            Jeno pointed at him with the fork. “Once again, doesn’t cover it.”

            A corner of his mouth quirked up, but he didn’t say anything more. Jeno took a deep breath, and finished eating the tart in silence. Then he finished, and pulled himself to his feet. He could’ve sat there for a few minutes more, ogled Renjun shamelessly and pretended that this was something he could have. But sometimes, he got tired of burning himself on the same flame over and over and over.

            Jiwoo waved at them enthusiastically on the way out, and a new girl popped her head in the door just as they were opening it. She bobbed her head at Jeno in acknowledgement before speed walking into the backroom. Jeno looked over his shoulder at her, baffled.

            “That’s just how Joo is with everyone, don’t feel bad!” Jiwoo called, before running into the backroom with a spatula in one hand.

            Jeno glanced at Renjun, and he laughed, brief and bright. His ears burned, because—muscle memory. Outside, it was still fucking freezing, and when Jeno leaned against the storefront, he immediately regretted it. He whispered a curse under his breath and glanced up at Renjun, to see if he’d caught it.

            He hadn’t. He was typing on his phone, leaned against a bike rack with one hand tapping against the metal. A frown was tugging at his lips, but he flattened his expression out when he put his phone back in his pocket. He cleared his throat. “So. That was fun.”

            Jeno gave a small laugh. “You don’t need to lie. Watching me eat for like an hour was probably not the most enjoyable use of your time.”

            Renjun shrugged. “I had fun. Seriously.”

            He laughed again, nervous and kind of high pitched, because _what the fuck?_ He wasn’t sure whether to read this as ‘I think you have the real talent for broadcasting eating shows’ or ‘I enjoy spending time with you in a platonic nonromantic way, because you are sometimes a decent person’.

Jeno jammed his hands in his pockets and stared down, at the frost on the pavements. He remembered snow on skin, and the crooked trees and—there was no escaping this. He took a deep breath. “Well, um. See you next year?”

            He blinked at him, silent for a few seconds. He could almost see the gears turning in his head. In the meantime, Jeno edged away from the storefront, took a couple steps towards Renjun before deciding against it and backtracking towards the other end of the street.

            Renjun scowled when he realized, called after him, “That’s a lame fucking joke!”

            His voice was clear in the cold air, and Jeno wondered, absentmindedly, if he could sing. He called back, “I’m a lame fucking joke! It works.”

            The other boy folded his arms. From this far away, Jeno couldn’t read his expression, the nuances of his gaze. But that suggested that he could when he was close enough; it suggested that, given enough time and enough proximity, Jeno could understand Renjun, even in some small, insignificant way.

            Renjun spoke again, and his voice was more distant this time, but just as distinct. “See you next year.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is an end but also a beginning in a way so... next chapter will be interesting this is all very vague and i'm sorry but i'm excited to explore how things change
> 
> also renjun's outfit... in all honesty its ~up to interpretation~ but also if enough of u express curiosity i cld bring it up in another chapter w description but that's if any1 actually wants it
> 
> KAYA DID ART OF THE TARTOISE LOGO AND ITS AMAZING AND ALSO SHE CAME UP WITH THE NAME TARTOISE AND I AM FOREVER INDEBTED TO HER!!!! PLEASE CLICK ON [THIS](https://twitter.com/1102_cafe/status/1007353279980990465) AND APPRECIATE HOW CUTE THIS TORTOISE IS!!!!
> 
> last but not least i have some a pinterest board for this fic so ig u can look at that for vague spoilers and aesthetics of characters so i will just leave it [here](https://pin.it/3uvgjs7h4i4gxv)
> 
> as always i'd really really really appreciate if u left a comment/kudos and here are my [cc](https://curiouscat.me/chuuist) and [twt](https://twitter.com/hwanguIt)!! sorry for not responding to things lately i was just. dealing with things and it was hard to word my gratitude ^_^


	5. silver linings are all i need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But they weren’t strangers now—this wasn’t like the hundreds of times he’d done it before, and when Jeno smiled at him, he smiled back. His chest tightened; the floodlights were too far to have any effect, but Jeno still glowed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a chapter abt the L word and related moments of self discovery/deprecation... i wld say sorry for the long-ish wait but im have classes + i have at least 3 other projects i'm currently committed to + other uglier things that keep my updates from coming quick so i'm just gna go ahead and say don't worry if i dont update unless it's been like? 2 weeks since the last one... that being said i love everyone who left comments/ccs and it means a lot to me that? ppl actually like to read this? :D anyway some things to note!
> 
> \- playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/varsh-bear/playlist/2cLHDwUOXIYqx4IMn8yKA6?si=YxhZsSxbTTy0IQQ4AVwo3A)!!
> 
> \- title from love; not wrong (brave) by EDEN... i know this isn't AUSTRALIAN but whatever ~ also note pls read this do me a favor and go listen to [wonder](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5x2VD7QtNwI) by lauren aquilina before reading this chapter !! also mb relisten at the spot w the gates!! pls!!!
> 
> \- mentions of throwing up/nausea!! and drug use/inebriated characters between "the park closed" and "and life went on"
> 
> \- ok not to scare ppl but this is the last rainbows and sunshine chapter... moment of silence for characters' happiness... ok have fun

            New Year’s came and passed like anything else. Jeno watched the entirety of the countdown curled up in a booth at the diner, with a melting milkshake hidden in the corner. Sicheng stopped by at one point to do—something. He couldn’t remember the specifics of it, but presumably it involved a patchwork blanket and peppermint candy.

            In some dim corner of his brain, the lack of extravagance bothered him. He hadn’t had champagne in like, six years. The party fiasco was still lurid in his memory, but the parts of his mind that didn’t care for pastimes like learning from mistakes were stubborn. It was hard to discern whether it was curiosity or self destructive tendencies that motivated him, but at this point, it was probably better to chalk it up to some combination of them both.

            He didn’t sleep that night, but at least he had an excuse. He didn’t sleep the night after, but that was just—banana slug rational thinking, probably. He managed to get some sleep later that week, and it was just as well. He liked to start his semesters with grades that let him feel optimistic about his future, if only for a little bit, and school was next week. _School was next week._ It felt like a warning and a reminder at the same time, an event you marked up on your calendar in neon ink.

            They didn’t see each other at first because, even though he liked to fantasize otherwise, they were not integral parts of each other’s life. Jeno was just a box of old tricks with a pretty face, a good way to spend the time when Renjun had nothing better to do. And when they did see each other, when Jeno caught his eyes from the other side of the football field during gym—it felt like nothing out of the blue. There was something to be celebrated there, he was fairly sure. Jeno looked, and Renjun looked back, and they acknowledged each other without astronomic amounts of condescension and disdain. Small victories, and yet it felt anything but small.

            The café trip over break was not something he liked to think about. If he thought about it, then it was real. But even without that to fixate on, the small ins and outs of their friendship, of their… something-ship were eating at him. Renjun had let him sleep at his house, without ever asking him why. Renjun had given him his jacket, and had never asked for it back. Renjun had showed up to the Christmas party dressed like a walking nightmare, and had fallen asleep mere feet—inches?—from him. And Renjun hated him, like how water hated fire, like how light chased darkness. These were all truths, and Jeno was meant to come to terms with all of them, most likely. He wasn’t doing a very good job, but he had time, he figured.

            But, that time was probably not supposed to come out of his studying. It was probably not supposed to come out of class. So when he got the first Econ test of the semester back, Qian’s eyes fixed down at the questionably patterned tile like even he didn’t want to face the fruits of Jeno’s idiocy, there was really no one to blame but himself.

            He went back to his desk, a good 20 feet away from Renjun’s, and stared down at the red ink. _This is fine,_ he thought. Then he realized that he didn’t even know what the test had been on, and thought that maybe it wasn’t fine.

            “What’s wrong?” Renjun asked, taking a seat on the edge of his desk. Jeno quickly flipped the paper over. They were now the sort of people who could talk easily, like this. Renjun could start a conversation with him; he was capable of not being annoyed by every word out of his mouth.

            Jeno heaved a breath. It was telling, but he could never hide himself in front of him. “Nothing.”

            The other boy ran his fingers against each other, rubbed a thumb absentmindedly on the grooves of the wood where some former student had dug in too hard with their pencil. “It’s obviously not nothing.”

            There was orange paint in his nails; this close, he smelled faintly of dishwasher soap and pears. Nobody smelled like pears, that just wasn’t a smell that people had, usually, and yet. He lived to surprise him. Renjun looked up from where he was observing the desk and shot him a small smile, disarming. “Just tell me, Jeno. It’s not like I’m going to judge.”

            And he was right. There was no possible way Jeno could possibly make him think any lesser of him; he’d hit rock bottom. Maybe, if he was a serial killer, or drank from open milk cartons. He took another deep breath, let it wash over him, faux calming, and turned over the paper.

            Renjun tried not to react. His features were carefully blank, but that was a reaction in itself, really. He scraped his eyes across the paper, considering, and Jeno felt like he was being sized up. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling—he wasn’t worth much. Then he asked, “Is it the material that’s tripping you up?”

            _No, Renjun, it’s just my crippling inability to retain any kind of information for more than thirty seconds, unless it happens to be related to you._ He gritted his teeth—his dignity felt thin and threadbare, one finger left on the edge of a crumbling cliff. Jeno said, “Yeah, you could say that.”

            Renjun opened his mouth, then closed it, hesitant. There was an eyelash on his cheek, and Jeno could suddenly think of nothing else but that, about the curve of his cheekbone and the way he worried his bottom lip between his teeth. This was a problem, possibly. He couldn’t bring himself to care enough about it.

            “I could, um, maybe,” his voice was quiet, and the words came out tangled. Jeno glanced up at him, but Renjun wasn’t looking at him, eyes fixed on the zipper of his jacket.  He inhaled, tried again. “If you wanted, I could tutor you.”

            Warning sirens were going off in his head. This was a hundred different shades of pity; Jeno could feel the metaphorical dunce cap being placed on his head. Like, seriously. There was your crush/friend/person-thing acknowledging that you were the human equivalent of a dog sniffing its own ass, and then there was this. Maybe he was a little bit masochistic. But this felt like a different region of shamelessness, and God, sometimes this entire situation tired him out a little bit.      

            “I’ll pass,” he said tightly, but it was measured, for the most part.

            Renjun tilted his head, like those words meant nothing to him. He looked at Jeno like he could understand him, sometimes. It hurt, more so because he knew he couldn’t. He shrugged, slid off the desk in one movement. “The offer still stands, if you want to take me up on it. It’s just ‘cause I care.”

            He’d improved at lying since October, that was for sure. For half a second, those words felt real; for half a second, Jeno’s chest clenched. He exhaled. “I won’t, but thanks.”

            Renjun glanced at him once, before walking over to his desk. His gaze lingered on Jeno’s face, not scrutinizing, not judgmental, just—looking. Like there was something there that mattered, something there that was worth anything at all.

            Jeno flipped his paper back over.

 

            …

 

            A week later, he got their next Econ test back. He stared at it for a few minutes, then looked across the room—Renjun was absent, one of those rare events that made you stop and wonder about the state of the world. Blue moons, and incorrupt governments, and like, four leafed clovers.

            He pulled his phone out, pressed it against the side of his desk. Qian’s eyes were glued to his monitor, his Sudoku untouched. There was no reason for him to be surreptitious about it. He wasn’t hiding from anybody but maybe, his own conscience. He patted himself on the back; monthly introspection complete.

           

            **jeno _[11:56 A.M.]:_** cld u tutor me for econ pls

 

            **jeno _[11:56 A.M.]:_** dont say anything abt it i rly need help D:

 

            His phone buzzed before he went to sleep that night. He didn’t take the time to think about what Renjun had been doing for the twelve hours in between.

           

            **renjun _[11:28 P.M.]:_** wasn’t going to

 

            **renjun _[11:28 P.M.]:_** i’m free tomorrow

 

            **jeno _[11:29 P.M.]:_** thats rly….. close

 

            **renjun _[11:30 P.M.]:_** sooner the better right

 

            **jeno _[11:31 P.M.]:_** right

 

            Jeno walked into English late the next day. When he fell asleep at his desk approximately thirty seconds after sitting down, Donghyuck didn’t say anything. He reminded himself, fuzzily, to hug him later.

 

            …

 

            Tutoring, in theory, was one of the most frightening things Jeno could imagine. An ineffective euphemism for realizing one’s own stupidity, over and over, for like, at least an hour on a regular basis.

            In practice, he was in a room with Huang Renjun, and so his own fears were null. Renjun was the universe’s great equalizer; put him in a situation, and there was automatically zero chance of Jeno coming out of it with any knowledge of what’d just happened.

            In hindsight, he probably should’ve just asked Qian for study tips.

            “So,” Renjun said, tapping his pencil against the notes. Jeno startled, rocked back against the flimsy wooden chair. “Review time.”

            “Review time,” he repeated, markedly less self assured.

            Renjun waited a few seconds for a reaction, and maybe some words. When he saw he was getting neither, he shifted in his chair, added, “Negative externalities?”

            “Exactly,” Jeno nodded, knowingly. Renjun slumped forward, latticed his fingers and placed his chin on them. He looked up at him, an uncomfortable cross between a puppy and a weary babysitter.

            “Am I doing something wrong?” he asked despairingly, half to himself and half to the wall behind Jeno. It would’ve been awkward, if Jeno didn’t know it was pretty much all his fault. “I used to tutor last year, and everyone said it was really helpful. Do you like, learn better with videos? Interactive games? Am I talking too much?”

            “No,” he said, very calm. His heart was spinning around and around and around, like his chest was the fucking teacup ride at Disneyland. He thought he might throw up if Renjun stared at him head on for any longer. Renjun did. He swallowed hard. “Maybe—Maybe I just need a little bit of time to process it? Like, to lie down, and think about all of the gritty details.”

            Renjun pressed his lips together and nodded grudgingly. “You’re right, that could be it.” He stared at his closed textbook for a few seconds more, contemplative and pleading, like if he stared enough, the textbook would confess why Jeno’s brain seemed to be a bottomless pit of—nothing. Like a Magic 8 ball, but specifically made for the mind boggling stupidity of Lee Jeno. He sighed, again, a resigned kind of sound. “See you Thursday? I have volunteering tomorrow.”

            Of course he did. Renjun was the sort of boy that volunteered and knew how to do taxes, probably, and read the newspaper when he was bored. Jeno stared through him for thirty more seconds, and he cleared his throat. Jeno blinked. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

            Renjun left a couple minutes after, and the library was different when he was alone. It was a little lonelier now, like if Jeno sighed, he’d hear it echo. He didn’t stay long enough to test out his theory; he’d heard the graphic novel section was haunted, and he’d just heard something fall down.

 

            …

 

            Tutoring was another rendition of the same old dynamic, the same old routine that Jeno and Renjun had going. Jeno was stupid, and Renjun was frustrated, and he was beautiful, and Jeno was fucked, a hundred times over. It was like, their thing.

            It didn’t help that most of the time, his brain tried to tackle the puzzle of their whatever-ship during that single hour between five and six. Like Renjun’s feelings towards him were a Rubik’s cube of indifference, pity, and something like sympathy, and if Jeno tried hard enough, he could crack it. Unfortunately, that was about as likely as him understanding any concept in Econ. Needless to say, tutoring was not going especially well.

            But sometimes it did. Sometimes, Jeno stared down at the textbook for a minute thirty, and Renjun held his breath, hopeful, and outside, birds chirped because shutting up was not in their fucking vocabulary, no matter how many times Jeno had tried to forcibly enter it. Sometimes, Renjun said, “Review time!” and Jeno didn’t want to jump out the nearest window. Sometimes, they smiled at each other, less strain and more an accident, like how you laughed at slapstick jokes with no real comedic basis.

            Jeno figured it out exactly two weeks after the beginning of the semester. Renjun was going through the chapter overview before they started actually covering material. He was wearing a sweater, a worn one that had paint on the hems. He’d wrapped his hands in the edges, thumbed the edge of the page with the tiny bit of his thumbnail that was still peeking out. His hair was kind of a mess, ruffled from too many brief moments of exasperation. He was squinting at the page, brows furrowed in concentration.

            There was a very delicate, very thin line when it came to them. It was more like a couple of lines, intersecting. Realizations that he’d had in the weeks leading up; feelings that he’d had to come to terms with; facts that were indomitable, and yet impossible to internalize long enough to do anything with them.

            He was fucked. He was really, really, really fucked, and being fucked was kind of like high strikers at a carnival. There were like, levels to hit before the top. There was fucked, and really fucked, and really, really fucked, and—

            There were cons to being dedicated to obtaining a high school diploma after all. He never would’ve thought.

            They stopped at the school gates after, close enough that Jeno could feel heat coming from him still. The sun was going down, and everything seemed washed in shades of gold and red, amber with hints of pink. Renjun looked at him, and Jeno looked away. 

            “This is me,” he said, jerked his head down the road. Renjun glanced at the street and laughed once, high and bright and brief but still _there._ Like that was a thing he did now, laughed at Jeno’s shitty jokes and pretended they weren’t shitty in the same breath. Jeno was wildly out of the loop—this wasn’t a new development. This was a new development in an alternate universe, a universe in which Jeno hadn’t started life thirty miles behind Renjun with like, a metal boot on one leg.

            Renjun nodded once, decisive and acknowledging, mirth still outlining his features. “Okay, then, um. I’ll see you.”

            It was open ended, for once. Most of the time, Renjun attached a day to it, a date and a location. It felt telling of their relationship, somehow. The shift was subtle, for the most part, but he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Back in the real world, the sunset was still coloring Renjun in shades of warmth.

            Jeno nodded, because that felt like maybe the only thing he could do without severely fucking up. He nodded again, and started walking backwards. Renjun mimicked him for a couple of steps, then turned around. He seemed smaller that way, like his personality added a few extra inches.

            It didn’t matter, in the end. Nothing out of his mouth was worth that much, really. At best, his confessions were jokes, the punch line yet to be seen. It didn’t matter when he said, where he said it, because Renjun wouldn’t care either way.

            So, by the same logic, this was as good a time as any.

            He mustered a hint of courage, something that called itself bravery and looked a lot like weariness. His chest felt tight, like, somewhere in the corners of his mind, a little bit of him was taking this seriously. _Do this well,_ he thought, and then realized there was no reason for him to try.

            But it felt a little sentimental, a little significant. Ten years from now, he’d look back on high school and bemoan his stupidity, and maybe, he’d remember this. 

            He drew in a deep breath, clenched his fists at his sides. “Huang!”

            Renjun stopped walking, tilted his head slightly and glanced over his shoulder. He looked beautiful like this, and he looked beautiful always, and it was a little bit hard to take, right then. The last vestiges of sunlight cut him into shadows, his expression unreadable, his stance unsure.

            He stared at Jeno, waiting, and—it was probably nothing. He inhaled again, slower, uncurled his hands and brought them up to his face to cup his mouth. It was meant to be a shout, but it came out a little quiet, a little sober. “I think I’m in love with you!”

            Jeno wasn’t sure what he expected. He expected—nothing, and everything at the same time. He expected Renjun to laugh at him; he expected him to move away.

            (He wanted to kiss him.)

            The gap between his expectations and his desires was almost ridiculously vast, a gasping absence that’d carved out a space between his ribs. Every second that Renjun stayed silent, it grew and grew and grew and—God, he couldn’t even breathe.

            The sun was minutes from disappearing altogether, and this far away, Jeno couldn’t make out much about him at all. Just the curve of his features, the way he hefted his backpack on his shoulders, the curl of his hair against his forehead.

            Renjun shook his head, once. It was a wry gesture, dismissive and yet shy and yet—Jeno didn’t know what it was meant to communicate. He never knew what Renjun was trying to say, but he always moved forward anyway. Maybe that was why he hated him so much.

            The other boy exhaled, and it puffed in the air. He shifted on the pavement, then called, “Get home safely!”

            It settled in his stomach, barbed and yet the opposite of malicious. He wouldn’t have known, but—Jeno took a deep breath, and offered the closest thing to a smile he could muster. “You too!”

            A small microcosm of their entire relationship, contained within two minutes. This was where they operated, in this tiny no man’s land. There was no reason for it to hurt, but it did.

            Down the street, Renjun turned the corner. Jeno started back, and the sun went down.

 

            …

 

            Jeno was different this month. Less exhausted, maybe, but different in another way, difficult to discern and yet significant. It wasn’t Renjun’s business, either way, but—he couldn’t help thinking about it. When you spent more than half of your high school career learning the curves of someone’s face, it was hard to ignore when they changed.

            Tutoring made it harder, an hour in the near empty library with only the half broken textbooks to keep them company. Sometimes, when it got too quiet, he could make out the faint buzz of the heater, the wind threading through the trees outside. But mostly, he looked at Jeno. In those stolen moments where he was staring at the textbook with almost painful focus, a pencil behind his ear and one eye squeezed nearly shut like that’d help. It felt clandestine in an exhilarating kind of way, like he could blink once, keep the memory of him for later, and he’d never know.

            Jeno glanced up, and Renjun flicked his eyes to the side. Water was dripping down the side of a magazine on a nearby table, and he watched as it blurred the ink. “Are you—”

            He looked over, and Jeno ducked his head, ears gone red. He pressed together his lips, then spoke, words tied to each other. “Never mind, it’s nothing.”

            Renjun reached over and shut the textbook, tugged it and his notebook over to his side and stacked them on the corner of the table. “What?”

            Jeno was still, impossibly, blushing. He glanced up, quick and furtive and saw Renjun was still staring at him. He blew out a sigh that was a groan in the same breath and leaned his head back. “It’s just, like. We’re always studying here.”

            “I’m pretty sure tutoring implies some form of studying is involved, yeah,” he said drily. The magazine was a mess of blues and reds, symbolic in some strange way he couldn’t quite grasp with Jeno still looking at him like that.

            “I—I know,” he muttered, and where it usually would’ve been restless, annoyed, there was a note of embarrassment. He sighed again, and Renjun resisted the urge to reach across the table and put a hand on his. It would either come off as patronizing or mocking or—affectionate. Jeno scrubbed a hand over his face. “I know, just. Can we start over?”

            “Start what over?” he said cautiously. _Drip._

            “The conversation. Can we start it over?”

            “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Go ahead.”

            “Okay,” Jeno said. “Thanks.”

            It was hard to pretend he wasn’t watching him, even after years to perfect the art. Renjun counted their breaths, counted letters on the page in front of him, counted whorls in the wood of the table. _One, two, three—_ “Do you want to go to the game with me?”

            Renjun looked up, eyes involuntarily wide. “What?”

            Jeno tripped over the words, fingers curled up like he could take everything back if he tried hard enough. “Not like that, you know what I mean, like—the football game. My friend’s playing, and we’re always studying, and you look tired these days and just. As a break, you know. Please?”

            Was this a bad idea? Probably. But Jeno was pouting, kind of, and Renjun was only one boy. There was something like hope in the other boy’s eyes, hope and something brighter. Renjun averted his eyes, started packing up his things without meeting Jeno’s gaze. He ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Yeah, I mean, if you want to, then I guess I have time.”

            He bit down on the inside of his cheek; the air smelled like desperation and loss of dignity and faintly like pine needles. But Jeno just grinned, bright and dazzling and painfully white in the dim lights. He held out an arm and Renjun stared at it. Forty seconds went by before he realized, and his cheeks flushed. He pulled his bag onto his shoulder and took Jeno’s hand tentatively. His skin was soft but calloused in places, worn down.

            They walked like that to the field, where the game was a couple minutes from starting. The air reeked of school spirit and warm beer, and the cloud of glitter and colored powder made Jeno appear hazy, faraway. He caught Renjun’s eyes like that, and something in him told him to look away, to pretend it’d never happened. But they weren’t strangers now—this wasn’t like the hundreds of times he’d done it before, and when Jeno smiled at him, he smiled back. His chest tightened; the floodlights were too far to have any effect, but Jeno still glowed.

            The chatter of the crowds built, and a group bumped into Renjun, pushing him forward and—fuck. Jeno smelled like peppermint and faintly of milk. His chest was warm, and Renjun could feel his cheeks heating up, could feel embarrassment building in his chest and suffocating him. This couldn’t be happening, except it was, and Jeno’s hands were tentatively at the small of his back, holding him close. It was just for safety purposes, really, only because he’d literally gotten shoved into his grip, but Renjun was a romantic, under all the cynicism, and—fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

            Jeno’s heart was beating quickly, but they were standing still, and Renjun felt like that was supposed to mean something important. But blood was rushing in his ears, and cheers were audible in the distance, and everything felt too warm and too soft and unreal to the point of pain, bittersweet and sharp like a papercut that you couldn’t forget.

            He took a deep breath, and it was shakier than he would’ve liked to admit. Everything smelled like fucking peppermint, and—he took another. Jeno’s hands were still warm on his back, and his hung loosely at his sides, and this was when it was supposed to happen. All he had to do was reach up, and it was so easy, but so impossible. So he stayed in that one moment, kept it safe and stored it away for later. It was enough; this was enough.

            Renjun inhaled again, pressed his lips together and took a step back. The warmth on his back dissipated and a cold breeze replaced it. He bit his tongue and stared at the asphalt, all gold glitter and puddles of rain. In his periphery, he saw Jeno still looking at him. He steeled himself and looked up, and the other boy’s cheeks reddened momentarily. There was a spot of glitter underneath his left eye, along the dip between his brow bone and the corner of his eye, and Renjun almost reached out, but—this was enough.

            He clenched his hands by his sides, glanced out at the field. Jeno was silent beside him, and there should’ve been tension there, but there wasn’t. Renjun couldn’t muster the energy to be afraid, couldn’t find the strength to hold the walls between them up. He just felt tired, and—

            “Are you hungry?” Jeno asked, three words trapped in a single exhale. Renjun opened his mouth to say that he was fine, but a soft growling sound filled the air and his cheeks burned. Jeno smiled at that, a fond thing that didn’t seem like it belonged in their friendship. But he was tired of thinking like that, about what belonged and what didn’t, about the societally acceptable way to act around someone you were meant to hate yet had never fallen out of love with. He was tired of caring about maintaining this balance, tired of walking along this tightrope.

            Renjun took a deep breath and smiled, watery at best. “Kinda, yeah.”

            Jeno smiled again, softer, and took his hand to lead him towards the stands. He dropped it when they got to an empty spot, and Renjun tried not to miss the warmth too much. He clapped his hands together. “Do you like pretzels? The soft ones, not the hard ones, I don’t know why they’d be selling hard ones at a football game, but like, I guess they might? Also, if you don’t like pretzels, they have hot dogs too! And, um, burgers? But those kind of taste like fertilizer so, yeah. They might have chips, I haven’t checked in a while—”

            “A pretzel sounds fine,” he interrupted, bit his lip until the smile subsided. Jeno’s ears went red.

            He passed a sheepish hand over the back of his neck and mumbled, “Yeah, um, okay. Pretzel, I’ll be right back.”

            The line must’ve been longer than expected because by the time he’d gotten back, the first quarter had already started. Renjun knew all of Jeno’s friends to some degree, knew that the jock one was—somewhere on the field. They all looked the same in the uniform, varying reiterations of attractive and muscular and sweaty.

            “Hey,” Jeno said, slightly breathless, taking a seat beside him. Someone on the other side of him bumped against his hip and suddenly he was too close for comfort, too close for the _rules._ If Renjun turned his head, he’d smell his flannel again, peppermint and milk. He didn’t. “What’d I miss?”

            He jerked his head at the field. “Game, um, started. Which one’s Yukhei?”

            Jeno squinted out at the field and felt for his hand simultaneously. Renjun’s face burned, and Jeno placed a small napkin wrapped pretzel in his left hand without looking at him. It was warm against his skin, oil seeping through the paper. He took a bite, and watched Jeno think.

            He tilted his head. “I think—God, I should really know this, shouldn’t I—he’s the one on the far left? No, not there, a bit closer to us—yeah, him.”

            Renjun narrowed his eyes at the figure. The uniform was… really tight. His mind wandered, and—this was dangerous. It was dangerous, and stupid, and he could feel his cheeks heating up. Quietly, he said, “Oh.”

            “Oh?” Jeno repeated, and Renjun glanced over. He was sipping from a drink, but his brows were drawn together in something akin to confusion. His lips were pursed, like he’d just tasted something bad. “What do you mean?”

            Renjun forced himself not to look at the angles of his body, keeping his gaze locked on his right earlobe. _Breathe._ Breathe, and breathe, and above all else, do not imagine Lee Jeno in a football uniform.

            Jesus Christ. Renjun stuffed the rest of the pretzel just so he didn’t have to deal with the sound of his own thoughts.

            “Renjun?” Jeno asked, because he didn’t drop things. He didn’t read into shit. No, if Renjun wanted to tell him something, he had to paint it on his face in bold black letters. His heart was beating unbearably fast.

            “What?” he said, smiled and hoped it didn’t come out too strained. Jeno blinked at him, gave a small hesitant grin.

            “Nothing, just…” he trailed off, and a muscle worked in his jaw. “Nothing.”

            “Okay,” he said, and they were quiet for a moment. Renjun took a sip of Jeno’s coke and put it down before he could notice.

            Halftime passed, and the band played. Halfway through the third quarter, they started cheering again, started talking like the sound of each other’s voice wasn’t somehow toxic. It was hard to keep track of it, all the sensations crowding in his mind. There was something painfully mundane about it all, and something glorious about that.

            Renjun remembered this; five minutes till the game ended, and they were laughing. It was some terrible joke, a pun or a knock knock joke or an inside joke that made no sense, and they were laughing and Jeno was close again, close enough that he could feel his breath ghost over the side of his ear. His laughter was soft, breathy and barely audible and yet he was so close that he could hear it clearly.

            He took a deep breath, and it smelled like peppermint and grease.

            The game ended, and the stands began to empty. Their team had won, and cheering was still audible on the field. Yukhei had taken off his helmet, and his hair shone in the floodlights. He was smiling obscenely wide. He cast a glance out at the field and Jeno waved at him, a movement in Renjun’s periphery.

            Yukhei slid his eyes towards him, assessing, and grinned at Jeno. He flushed and pointedly looked away from Renjun. He picked at the soiled napkin and toed the metal supports of the stands. There was a silent conversation happening here, and he was decidedly on the outskirts of it. He didn’t feel bitter as much as he felt profoundly uncomfortable.

            Jeno bumped his shoulder into his, an absentminded kind of gesture. “Let’s go.”

            They walked in silence to the gates. The air was filled with cars honking and kids screaming just for the sake of it and some Top 40 song that Renjun couldn’t remember the name of, filled with a kind of youth that both amused and annoyed him. Streetlights and headlights made everything appear in shades of gold and white, and Jeno looked ghostly beside him. They stopped below the trees, equal distance from Renjun’s house and from his.

            _I don’t want to go home,_ he thought. It was a latent realization, buried deep in his subconscious until now, and it was puerile but ached all the same. He didn’t want to go home and turn off all the lights, didn’t want to study for his calculus test with the quiet blaring of the television just because the silence hurt. He didn’t want to go home, and he didn’t want to go somewhere without Jeno, and he wasn’t sure which one was more dangerous.

            They were—friends. It was okay, maybe, to care for someone like this if you were friends. For now, this was safe.

            The light trickled through the branches and cut the pavement below them into pieces of shadow. Jeno toed at the crack of the sidewalk and blew out a long breath before looking up. His eyes were almost squeezed shut, bracing for impact. “Do you want to go to the diner?”

            Relief loosened the knot in Renjun’s chest, a brief weightless sensation of joy and then the guilt that always followed. “Yeah, um. That sounds good.”

            Jeno gave a small smile, embarrassed, and hid it with the back of his hand. They didn’t look at each other on the way to the diner, but if Renjun focused on it, he could feel the warmth of Jeno beside him. He thought of taking his hand again, like they had before the game, and then his thought process was replaced with the smell of peppermint and detergent and he decided against it.

            He had homework, he was pretty sure. Homework, and a quiz tomorrow, and there was a presentation he was meant to give in some class or another, and something to speak on for leadership, and yet it all felt faraway right now. Like the café over break; like they weren’t tied to their responsibilities and their pasts and their friends, like this wouldn’t end badly when deep down, he knew it would.

            The diner was visible in the distance before long, the open sign blinking bright in the darkness. Inside, it was nearly deserted, just the still broken lightbulb and Sicheng to keep them company. His eyes flicked up when they walked in and he held up a hand in farewell. “Usual?”

            Jeno nodded and they took a seat. The sky was dark, moon high in the sky and a rational part of him piped up, said he should probably check the time. There was a clock in the opposite corner of the diner and his phone was heavy in his pocket but he couldn’t bring himself to. It would make it all a little too real.

            “That was fun,” Jeno said, after a few minutes had passed like that. He was drumming his fingers on the edge of the table. There was something painfully reticent about him right then, tense in a way that the situation didn’t seem to warrant.

            “Yeah,” Renjun replied quietly, because his vocabulary had gotten gutted and replaced with ten words. He echoed, “It was fun.”

            “Thanks for—”

            “Actually, um—”

            Sicheng placed two milkshakes on the edge of the table and glanced between them, eyes narrowed. Then he returned to his place behind the counter, put his music back in. Renjun ducked his head and gestured at Jeno. “Uh, you can go first.”

            “Oh,” he said, suddenly shy. He blew bubbles in his milkshake and they popped, the only sound in the diner. “Just, like. Thanks for coming, I would’ve gone alone, if you hadn’t come. I didn’t think you’d say yes, to be honest.”

            “Why?” Renjun asked, keeping eye contact as he took a sip of his milkshake. Jeno’s brows drew together, lips twisted too far to the right.

            “Because you hate me?” he said, and it was a question, but more a statement than anything else. He said it with the same surety that one would use for scientific facts; the sun was a star, and Renjun hated Lee Jeno. Set in stone and indomitable, impenetrable. He felt suddenly nauseous.

            He stared at the table for what seemed like forever, one hand still loosely wrapped around his milkshake. The condensation wet his hand and made everything feel too cold. He would’ve shivered, if he’d had the energy.

            The quiet of the diner suddenly felt oppressive, painful and thick. Above them, the light bulb flickered again and again, resolute and unaffected by the communication issues of two seventeen year olds with oceans between them. Sicheng had taken out one of his earbuds to eavesdrop, and the faint, tinny sound of his rock music filled the air.

            Renjun took a deep breath and dropped his hand from his milkshake, wiped it on his pants and spoke without looking up. “I don’t hate you.”

            Silence, and he glanced up, caught Jeno’s gaze. He seemed faraway, the way he sometimes was during class, body stationary and soul inaccessible in every way.

            “Jeno,” Renjun said, and he blinked, fear coloring his gaze. He was afraid, and he thought Renjun hated him, and these two facts were indubitably connected, and his stomach hurt. He exhaled slowly. “I don’t hate you, I promise.”

            The other boy didn’t say anything for a bit, but a flush spread across his face and towards his hears. “Oh. You don’t?”

            “I don’t,” he confirmed, and hoped his voice didn’t sound as shaky as it felt. Renjun brought up a hand, stuck his pinky out. “Pinky promise.”

            A smile flickered on Jeno’s face, and then he wrapped his pinky around Renjun’s. “Pinky promise.”

            “Oh,” he said again, a hair louder. And then he took another sip of his milkshake, face still bright red. Renjun hid a smile behind his straw and did the same.

            Renjun checked his phone when they finished, sated and quiet. His heart stopped. “It’s almost midnight, fuck.” He glanced over at Jeno, still sipping up the dregs of whipped cream. “You’re coming home with me.”

            Jeno’s face went completely red in just under five seconds, and Renjun waved his hands in denial, his own cheeks heating up. “Not—not like that, oh my _God._ It’s just, late. You can stay over at my place.”

            He tilted his head, oddly feline. “Are you sure that’s fine?”

            Renjun blinked at him. “What? Yeah, of course it is, it’s not like there’s anyone else home. You can take a guest room.”

            Jeno still seemed unsure, but he didn’t say anything more, just shoved his glass off to the side and pressed a couple of bills on the table. Renjun did the same, and Sicheng waved at them on the way out, his music back in.

            They walked in silence on the way home, and Renjun snuck glances over at him when he wasn’t looking. Jeno looked different at night, quieter and softer on the edges, worn in a way that made him appear painfully young, and yet aged beyond his years.

            There was still a spot of glitter on his face, and Jeno caught him looking at it, cocked his head to the side. “What?”

            “Just,” he said, held his breath and waited two beats for the moment to pass. But it didn’t, and he reached over and touched the pad of his thumb against the tender skin there, the glitter brushed towards his hairline. The skin under his finger turned red, warm from the touch and nothing else.

            “Thanks,” he said, and his voice was uncharacteristically high, suddenly. They didn’t speak for the rest of the walk, and when they got home, they got ready for bed with the same kind of silence. Not awkward, but different.

            In the middle of the night, the door to Renjun’s room opened. He didn’t open his eyes until the sounds had subsided, crawling to the edge of his bedframe and watching Jeno below him. He’d spread out the blankets on the floor, fallen asleep in a matter of moments.

            Renjun watched him sleep for a few moments more, peaceful in a way he never seemed to be around him, and then pulled his blankets back over him.

            Glow in the dark stars were bright on the ceiling, and he stared at them as the clock ticked towards dawn. They glowed faintly, a soft light that was nothing in comparison with the boy asleep beside him. Renjun’s heart felt tight, on the verge of a realization unknown to even him.

            Jeno snored softly, and Renjun fell asleep like that, the guilt in his chest substituted by content.

 

            …

 

            The days passed, and they changed. A different Jeno warranted a different Renjun, and even though they never spoke about it, the night in the diner still weighed on both of them. When someone told you they thought you hated them, there was a fair chance you were doing something horribly wrong.

            Jeno started sleeping over. He didn’t always come, and when he did, there wasn’t always a reason. Just—Jeno at the front door, and something under his arm. Some days, it was food; other times, it was a box of paper clips the size of his head. Sometimes, he came empty handed and empty eyed, and Renjun didn’t ask because it wasn’t his place. But if he swapped his own pillow with the old, shitty guest pillow, that was no one’s business but his own.

            Jeno asked him on one of those nights, head tilted back against the mahogany headboard. He was strangely still, legs twisted on the duvet and arms limp at his sides. “When are you going to show me your art?”

            Renjun’s hands stilled, stuttered in their movement. He continued, slid another sheaf of papers into his backpack and leaned it against the side of his desk. He cast a glance around the room; in the corner, an easel held his current project, a stained white sheet thrown over it hastily. A stack of canvases laid in the opposite corner, and art supplies were spilled at the base of it. Jeno’s surprise visits meant that he never had time to clean up, erase all clues of his hobby from view.

            He wiped his hands on his jeans. “What makes you think I’m ever going to?”

            Jeno made an affronted noise in the back of his throat and moved suddenly, switched around his position on the bed and laid down, decumbent. He stretched his elbows out and used them to prop up his head, staring at Renjun through the ridges in his bedframe. He pouted, a dangerous thing. “Why not?”

            He laughed, but it was a lot less self assured than he’d meant it to come out. “Because it’s shit? Forgive me if I don’t want to be publicly humiliated.”

            “It’s not shit,” Jeno said suddenly, after a silence that’d felt like it would last forever. He was staring at the wallpaper, but when he spoke he looked back at Renjun, gaze intense and almost ardent. He spoke with such conviction, it was hard to believe that he was speaking on the quality of Renjun’s late night paintings. This was the kind of conviction reserved for climate change and world hunger and the wage gap, and yet here he was, staring holes through him.

            They stared at each other for a few seconds more, and Jeno cleared his throat, averted his gaze to his backpack. But his voice still held the same cadence, the same certainty. “It’s not shit. I’ve seen your assignments for class before, you’re good. And I saw a tiny glimpse of your sketchbook—” Renjun instinctively tensed, ready to throw himself out the window, “—not much, don’t worry, just like, landscapes and shit. It was good, really good, so—” he broke off then, looked up at him. It was too much to bear, dark eyes and no smile in sight, and then he gave a small, shy grin, and it softened his features. “Don’t say that about yourself. And it’s not like I’m any good at art.”

            “You can say that again,” he muttered under his breath, hoping the jibe would distract him from the flush on his face.

            It didn’t. Jeno stuck out his tongue. “Rude. Anyway, my stick figures are shit compared to your thirty second doodles so… let me see?”

            “No.”

            “ _Please_ let me see?” he tried again, flopping over on the bed so he laid supine, stretching his arms out behind him. “I don’t bite.”

            Renjun sighed and walked over to the bed, poking Jeno in the side until he rolled over and made room. He climbed on, laid down beside him. It was pleasantly warm under him, and he tried not to think about the millimeters of space between them. If he moved, if he shifted just slightly—it was wrong to think about, but. He could dream.

            He said, “If I had to show my art to someone, I’d show it to you.”

            Silence. The overhead fan whirred, and Renjun stared at it, followed the blades until his head hurt. Renjun hazarded a glance over at him, afraid, and found Jeno looking at him. But he was unreadable, eyes bright. “Do you want to get pizza?”

            Renjun blinked at him. “For dinner?”

            Jeno shifted, and it brought him closer. He held his breath. “Yeah. Hawaiian, like you like it.”

            He looked away from him, back at the ceiling. The proximity was killing him; Lee Jeno was made for small doses, made for brief conversations and late afternoon ogling. This close, he was tangible, and that was dangerous. “Okay.” 

             The lightbulb went out, and above them, the stars glowed.

 

            …

 

            Renjun leaned against the bike rack, watching Jeno get his skateboard. It was a typical winter afternoon, icy sludge and wet spots of pavement as far as the eye could see. They were supposed to have tutoring today, but they’d gotten their last Econ test back, and Jeno had gotten a B-. He’d waved it in Renjun’s face, high strung, and he hadn’t had the heart to be annoyed about it.

            “So,” Jeno said, carefully extricating it and shooting him a smile, “Do I get a prize?”

            “For what?” he asked, and he pouted in his periphery.

            “You’re so mean,” he muttered. “I got a B-, you could at least get me like, an ice cream cone.”

            “It’s the middle of winter,” Renjun retorted, and slid off the bike rack.

            “And?”

            He laughed, disbelieving, and Jeno’s mouth quirked to the side. Renjun nodded his head at the skateboard, a ghost of a smile still curving his lips. “Teach me how to ride it.”

            Jeno hugged it to his chest and shook his head. “This is my _baby._ Why would I let you ride Francine?”

 _He gave it a name?_ Renjun tilted his head. “If you do, I’ll buy you a tart.”

            “Chocolate?” he asked, a pretense of thoughtfulness still present on his face even though his eyes were dark with hunger.

            “Chocolate,” he confirmed.

            Jeno led him behind the main building, where the asphalt met the baseball fields. Out here, it was deserted, straggling students in the distance but none close enough to notice them. Jeno toed the white lines marking the parking spaces and gently laid his skateboard on the ground. He stroked it for a few seconds; Renjun stared into the distance and tried in vain to convince himself this wasn’t happening.

            The other boy nudged him slightly, and he startled. He nodded at the skateboard. “Get on.”

            Renjun eyed it skeptically. “What if I fall off?”

            Jeno rolled his eyes. “You’re not gonna fall off.” He didn’t say anything more for a second, just stared and stared and Jeno huffed and waved his hands. “I’ll make sure you don’t fall, so just get on and trust me.”

            There was something inherently untrustworthy about that statement, but Renjun bit his tongue and gingerly placed one foot on the skateboard. He took a deep breath and shifted, slightly, and the world listed to the side.

            “Hey,” Jeno whispered, and suddenly his hands were on his waist, and _his hands were on his waist,_ and—everything turned to white noise. “I’ve got you.”

            Those words were going to haunt him for the rest of his life. Sixteen year old Renjun would’ve built a shrine to them, between his desk and the window, decorated with glittery heart stickers and sketches made on scraps of binder paper. Jeno leaned forward, put his chin on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

 _Not right now,_ he thought. Hoarsely, he said, “Yeah.”

            “Okay,” he said, and he must’ve nudged the board with his sneakers because it lurched forward slightly, and Renjun pitched back in fright. He laughed, and it reverberated through him. “You’re so tense, Jesus. Relax.”

            “It’s hard to fucking relax on this deathtrap,” he muttered, and Jeno laughed again, readjusted himself so he was beside Renjun instead of behind him.

            He nodded at the stretch of asphalt in front of him. “Take your other foot and push off—not that hard, yeah, just like that.”

            A breeze whistled through the trees and they slid across the ground, quiet and rumbling. It was unsteady at best, and even after twelve years of dance, his balance was subpar. He wasn’t sure whether that was because of his fear or because of Jeno, hands still ghosting on the thin fabric of his t-shirt. If he tilted too far to either side, there’d only be that layer separating them, warmth permeating through it. Renjun focused on the brick wall in the distance and prayed his face hadn’t gone too red.

            Jeno removed his hands from his waist and he tried not to miss it too much. He laughed once, a couple feet behind him. “You look good on her.”

            Renjun flushed, thankful he couldn’t see him. “You probably say that to all the other boys.”

            “I don’t,” he said, voice growing more distant by the second. Silence, and then he was beside Renjun again, one hand on his waist. “I don’t let others ride her. You’re the first one.”

            In the distance, the sun was beginning to go down, streaks of gold and shadow turning the school grounds burnt orange. Jeno reached out his other arm and held Renjun back before he hit the other wall, bright red brick too close for comfort.

            “So?” he asked. “What’d you think?”

            “It was fun,” Renjun said, thoughts on black hair and bright eyes and a lipless grin instead of Francine, discarded by his feet and forgotten to him entirely. “Thanks.”

            Jeno grinned, and Renjun shut his eyes for a moment too long. When he opened them, Francine was back in Jeno’s arms and he was feet away, at the corner of the main building. Light from the sunset spilled out around it and turned his hair amber. He tilted his head. “Are you coming? You have to pay, you know.”

            Renjun sucked in a breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

 

            …

 

            The day it happened, Renjun saw him coming in the distance. Classes had ended, and Jeno had left early, halfway through gym. But there he was, across the street, seemingly fine. His head was turned away, back to him, and this far away, he couldn’t discern anything about his posture.

            He crossed the street, sped up on Francine until he was on Renjun’s side of the sidewalk, coming closer with every moment. The sky was overcast, and the dark clouds were reflected in his eyes, harsh and impenetrable.

            “Jeno!” he called, a lapse in his self preservation instincts. Even from far away, he could tell something was wrong. Jeno looked over at him and through him, like he didn’t recognize him. His movements were quick and erratic; taut and filled with an energy that betrayed a hint of anger. The depth of it was concealed, and yet even then, Renjun could feel his fury. It filled the air, raw and acrid. Corrosive in a way that mattered, an anger that only sought to burn.

            He lowered his foot to the pavement and sped up again, and—Renjun should’ve stepped out of the way. He didn’t know why he hadn’t; at best, it was clumsiness, and at worst, it was some misguided attempt to make him stop.

            Jeno stopped abruptly, and he trembled with the force of it, leaned forward so close he could hear his breaths come fast. He nudged Francine to the side haphazardly, against the yellow grass. “What?”

            Even his voice felt wrong, letters held against each other awkwardly. There was a small cut on the side of his jaw, an angry, indignant red. His hair was a mess, hand pulled through it one too many times. His lips were pressed together so tight they seemed to disappear. But his eyes caught him over and over, dark and unforgiving and unrecognizable. There was a stinging, double edged ache in those eyes, and every moment he stared sharpened the knife between his ribs.

            “What’s wrong?” he asked, and Jeno tore his gaze away, stared at the cement.

            He drew in a deep breath and spoke with an unwavering certainty that had no effect on Renjun. “Nothing. Are you okay?”

            “I—what?” he asked, dumbfounded.

            “I bumped into you,” he said slowly, still not looking at Renjun. His words were dry, but soft. “Are you hurt?”

            “You didn’t, I’m—fine,” he said, breaking off when Jeno looked up at him.

            They stood in silence for a few seconds, unsure of how to move forward. It was one thing to notice that Jeno had changed and another to see him completely alien. Curiosity and worry mingled in his heart, an unfounded need for him to be okay and a need to know _why_ he was like this.

            He’d never say, because that was how he was, but, for half a second, Renjun wanted to be the sort of person he’d say it to. It was a painful thought and it came slow and relentless, like dragging the tip of a knife across your skin and waiting for it to draw blood.

            “Are you okay?” Renjun echoed quietly, and Jeno looked over, surprise bright amidst all the anger.

            He opened his mouth to say something but then closed it again, contemplative. His features were impassive, but there was something strained about them, like if Renjun reached out and pulled, he could take him apart with one tug. He took a deep breath, schooled his features back into something passably pleasant. It annoyed him a little, that Jeno thought he’d believe something like that.

            “I’m fine,” he said, in that soft voice that shoved all of Renjun’s innards into a blender on high. It felt out of place here, sacrilegious. “You don’t have to worry about me, Renjun.”

            It was dismissive at best, and Renjun spoke through the cotton thick in his throat. “You’d tell me if you weren’t though, right?”

            Jeno blinked at him, surprise wiping everything else off again. For a moment, the anger left, and then it was back, distant and simmering but still there. It crackled in the air. If Renjun reached out and touched his arm, he was only half sure he wouldn’t be mildly electrocuted. Jeno was like that sometimes, easily likened to natural disasters and supernovas—bright and beautiful and destructive without real malice. Then he smiled, plastic and unassuming. “Of course I would.”

            It was a lie. Renjun let his eyes fall closed, took a breath. Jeno picked up Francine and pushed off on her, brushed past Renjun and glanced over his shoulder. “See you tomorrow?”

            “What?” he asked, caught off guard.

            “Tutoring,” Jeno said, with the same tone of voice he’d use to say ‘cucumber’ or ‘balloon’. He was reading too far into it, he was pretty sure, but he was already here, thirty feet deep into Lee Jeno’s subconscious, and there was no point in staying if he didn’t.

            “I’ll see you then,” Renjun said, and Jeno smiled again. It was more brittle now, not from Renjun but from the effort of keeping himself together, and something snapped in his chest.

            Renjun stared at the sidewalk until it turned fuchsia. He should’ve moved away at the beginning of the year. He should’ve run away. He should’ve fucking transferred out of art. Two rocks and a twig grinned up at him, a makeshift smiley face.

            It looked kind of like Jeno. Renjun kicked at it.

 

            …

 

            The park closed at seven. It was a little after midnight now, and all they had to worry about was the security guard that made the rounds at the beginning of the hour. Mark had brought a green blanket and some turf to help camouflage them, but they just ended up making a run for the trees if they had the time.

            They were high again, because they were never at the park if they weren’t high. But they hadn’t come recently, and Jeno coughed on the smoke accidentally. It felt telling somehow, a mathlete solving two plus two and getting seven.

            Donghyuck was laid out across the grass, combing his fingers through it lazily. Mark was beside him, Yukhei across from them and Jeno between them.

            “Whose shirt is that?” Mark called, and Jeno flicked his eyes over, surprised.

            He looked down; it was one of Renjun’s old t-shirts, paint covering the hem. Jeno knew that if he brought it to his nose, he’d smell lavender, and the thought sent a flush spreading over the base of his neck. He stared at the grass like it’d save him.

            “It’s Renjun’s,” Donghyuck answered for him, voice muffled by Mark’s shoulder. “That’s what he’s doing when he’s not hanging out with us, didn’t you know?”

            “Who he’s doing,” Yukhei corrected and Jeno glared at him. He just smiled innocently and put his hands up.

            “There’s nothing between us,” he said carefully, but it came out a little worn. “Seriously, he just let me borrow his shirt because I was sleeping over one night.”

            “Sleeping over?” Donghyuck asked, eyebrows arching.

            Jeno huffed. “Whatever you’re thinking of, it’s wrong. We’re—friends. I’m okay with that.”

            “Okay,” Donghyuck said, stretching it out so that the vowels held worlds of meaning in them. “Friendship is fine, if you want it. Are you gonna give back the shirt?”

            His ears burned, and he gave a small, harsh laugh, tilted his head back. “Do you think it’s okay if I don’t?”

            “When did you take it?” Mark piped up, arm loosely wrapped around Donghyuck’s waist. Jeno’s chest hurt looking at it, if he thought about it too hard.

            “Like—” Jeno broke off and shrugged. “A couple weeks ago?”

            The three other boys exchanged a knowing look between themselves, unreadable save for the hint of pity. It was pity, fear, or concern; he couldn’t tell which. Jeno took another hit and tried to focus on the moon. It reminded him of Renjun, so he stopped.

            “I think,” Donghyuck said, very quiet and matter of fact, “If he wanted it back, he would’ve asked by now.”

            And Jeno knew he was right. It settled in his stomach, hard and cold and nauseating, the kind of fact that hurt because of all of the things it could mean and all of the things that it did.

            The moonlight turned everything kind of bluish, otherworldly. That was probably why he said it, in hindsight. If the sun had been shining, if they’d been in school, if he hadn’t been fucking high, he probably would’ve kept his mouth shut.

            He blew out a stream of smoke. “Yukhei, I think you have an admirer.”

            The other boy had been staring at the tree line, uncomprehending, but at the words he flopped over and blinked at him, eyes wide. He grinned. “Another one? Who?”

             Staring at his face was pissing him off for some reason. Jeno wrinkled his nose and took another hit before blinking up at the stars above them again. “Renjun.”

            Silence, and then: “Oh, _fuck._ I’m sorry, dude.”

            Jeno’s throat felt like sandpaper. He glanced down at them; Donghyuck was giving him another appraising look, Mark was sympathetic, and Yukhei looked like someone had just murdered his dog in front of him. He cleared his throat, and _Jesus fuck,_ it’d been a long time. Jeno gave a small smile, but it felt watery at best. “Nah, it’s fine. It’s not like I was expecting something anyway. It’s been like, five months.”

            Yukhei reached over and patted his leg in what was probably supposed to be a reassuring gesture. “He’s not my type anyway.”

            He rolled his eyes. “You’re so annoying.”

            Yukhei grinned and opened his mouth to say something more, but before he could, Donghyuck shifted on the grass and turned towards Jeno. His eyes were bright but narrowed. “How do you know?”

            “Know what?”

            “That he likes Yukhei,” he said, tapping his fingers along the edge of Mark’s arm.

            Jeno heaved a sigh. “Uh, we, um, went to one of his games. And he was like, checking him out. Really obviously. Like, so obvious that I’m not sure whether he was doing it on purpose to give me a sign? You know, like, ‘See, there’s someone else I’m obviously into so maybe shut the fuck up?’”

            Donghyuck wrinkled his nose. “I didn’t think he was that much of an asshole.”

            “He’s not,” Jeno said, and it came like second nature. It hurt, and he swallowed hard. “He’s not, really. He’s just tired, I think. Five months, like I said. He doesn’t hate me, though, so I should probably drop this entire thing just out of like, courtesy.”

            Nobody said anything for a bit, and he was fine with that. He’d made it awkward; this was a regular occurrence. Jeno laid back on the grass, and it was cold, wet against his skin.

            “How do you know if you’re in love?” he asked suddenly, only half aware of the words until the moment he’d said them.

            “Do you think you’re in love?” Donghyuck said, words slurred slightly.

 _Do I?_ He shook his hand. “Not the point. Answer my question first.”

            Donghyuck sighed. “I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like, one day you wake up, and you want to be with them forever. Not like a creepy stalker deal, just— _with_ them. Grow old together, and shit.” There was a small rustle, and he audibly shifted on the grass. “Forevers, you know. You want to be each other’s forever. And nothing’s forever, and you know that, but you want it anyway. Like a fuck you to life’s rules, the impermanence of things. That’s how I think of it, at least.”

 _Oh._ Jeno sucked in a breath, and it was too cold.

            “So?” Donghyuck said. “Do you think you’re in love?”

            His chest felt tight, suddenly. He pulled himself up, and the world lurched around him. He took a moment and waited for the spinning to subside before taking another hit. The knots loosened, slightly, and he took a deep breath. It wasn’t enough, but—close. “I don’t know, maybe.”

            It came out wrong, though, and lying to himself was a common pastime but right now it just fucking hurt. He took another deep breath and kept his gaze carefully level, watched the tops of the trees in the distance. “I—I think so.”

            Nobody said anything. He laid back down—the sky twirled above him. “Love is like—it’s like an onion.”

            There was a rustle in the grass beside him and Yukhei sat up, obscuring part of the moon. “Dude, are you fucking okay?”

            He laughed, but it was high and brittle and humorless. “It’s like—you start liking someone, right? Just off looks or something, and it’s nothing big. That’s the first layer.”

            “Are you texting Jisung?” Donghyuck muttered to Mark, voice purposefully low.

            “Yeah,” he murmured back. “He’s on his way.”

            “Are you guys listening to me?” Jeno asked, only slightly whining. A chorus of yeses met him, and he continued.

            “And you start liking them more and more? You learn more and more about them, and it’s like, different layers of the onion, kind of. But it all adds onto the first layer, like in terms of how much you like them.”

            “Literally, what the fuck?” Yukhei murmured, just under his breath. Jeno ignored him.

            He felt strained again, seconds from unraveling and falling apart, and above him, the stars were shining. But it didn’t feel the same—they didn’t glow the same way as Renjun’s shitty glow in the dark ones did. It was a dumb detail to focus on, but that was the way it always was with Renjun. Gravel reminded Jeno of him; gravel, and night, and day, and paint, and textbooks, for fuck’s sake.

            He took another deep breath, and if it was markedly shakier than its predecessors, none of the others said anything. “And like, before you know it, there’s barely anything left. And you have all these fucking—fucking layers of onion around you and you’re _this fucking gone_ and it means nothing, because it’s not like you can do anything at this point. Like, the onion’s fucking gone, and you can’t put it back together and you just have to—live with it.”

            His breaths came quick; he pressed a hand to his heart and a spark of guilt buried itself in his heart.

            Nobody said anything, and Jeno kind of wanted to cry. Five months gone, and four more to go, and yet somehow, he knew he’d feel the same at the end of it all. It was stupid, so fucking stupid, but he wasn’t strong enough to let it go.

            There was warmth beside him, and then—Donghyuck took his hand in his. He didn’t say anything, just stared up at the sky. After a few minutes, he said, “Do you want a hug?”

            “Yeah,” he breathed, and Donghyuck wrapped his arms around him. His chest still ached, but—this was good. This made it hurt a little less.

            A sharp whistling came in the distance, and lights followed it. _Fuck._ They gathered up their stuff and ran for the trees. There was shouting coming from behind them, curse words and calls for them to stop all tied together. Jeno’s chest burned, and when they stopped, the trees cast everything in shadows. Moonlight trickled in through the branches, turned the scene to a monochrome mess.

            The tightness in his chest subsided for a fraction of a second, and he leaned back against a nearby tree, tilted his head back and let his eyes fall closed. Mark was saying something, checking everyone for scratches and making sure they had all their stuff. His voice was a calming buzz in the background, blending with the sound of crickets chirping.

            Jeno took another deep breath, and it stung, but in a good way. Monday, he’d have to go back to school and see him again. And Tuesday, and Wednesday, and Thursday too. It would’ve made him nauseous, if he’d had the energy for it.

            Four more months. The onion had already fallen apart, but—he had four months to keep it from unraveling further.

            There was a rustle in the distance, and his eyes snapped open. Mark put a finger to his lips and glanced over, wary. Tension was written into his muscles, ready to sprint away.

            Jisung poked his head out from behind a clump of trees. He held a plastic bag in one hand, junk food poking out of the top. Yukhei clapped a hand on his shoulder and he glared at him, mouth quirking in a smile.

            “What’d I miss?” he said breezily, voice barely above a whisper.

            Donghyuck looked at him carefully. It was a loaded look, an agreement between them that seemed to carry more than paper promises. Then he looked back at Jisung and smiled, teeth bright white in the darkness. “Nothing.”

            And life went on. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just as a reminder to finish off this chapter.. neither jeno nor renjun are reliable narrators. like, at ALL. 
> 
> also pls send me thoughts/questions on characters/events/shit in my cc i actually enjoy talking abt the ins and outs of all of the characters in a more detailed manner bc there is only so much introspective character study u can cram into a chapter before u have to get to PLOT DEVELOPMENT T-T
> 
> another thing abt the waits! i have a pretty big project i completely ignored in favor of updating magnolia so mg6 is going to be delayed :( its also a WHOPPER emotional rollercoaster wise tho so !!!!
> 
> also... THEY'RE IN LOVE AND I CANT DEAL W THIS.... I HOPE U ALL LIKED THIS CHAPTER BTW!!! shes kinda short but jan/feb are kinda tied together imo... also STYLISTIC PURPOSES 
> 
> leave stuff in my [cc](https://curiouscat.me/chuuist) or hmu on [twt](https://twitter.com/hwanguIt) if u want! i may not always respond on time but that's usually bc i like keeping messages to myself for a while for motivation ^_^


	6. under graceless light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That was the problem with miracles. They never stayed long—they lingered just long enough for you to think, _This is it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry in advance for both the wait and this chapter. seriously i recommend getting a box of tissues (it should hurt if i wrote it properly but honestly who knows if i wrote it properly). its the longest chapter so far tho!! another thing to mention is that i had a period of mind vegetation where my writing style just like ROTTED so part of this is reminiscent of a writer that i was reading recently? hopefully it doesnt seem TOO off! some more things to know !!  
> \- chapter [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/varsh-bear/playlist/1hPYkZGgcOhoHWsdZgDWtD?si=amsrEbfxQkK-iMCuMIQpag) here!!  
> \- chapter title from still unbeaten life by gang of youths  
> \- also this chapter has the second non-noren narrator scene!  
> \- warning for alcohol use! between "Do you want anything?" and "This is it" (the last one in that section) and also "Jaemin knew" and "Jaemin hugged him"

            They didn’t talk about the onion in the room.

            It was a stubborn, petulant kind of ignorance that kept them going—their eyes were beginning to burn, but they didn’t acknowledge it to themselves, much less to each other. The onion fell apart slowly, the opposite of a bloom, and they stared at the drywall, unrelenting.  

            When Jeno closed his locker door, Renjun was standing on the other side, casually leaned against the taupe metal. His features were schooled into something meant to mimic indifference, and doing a poor job of it. He smiled at him, and the watery imitation of excitement came out even more unconvincing. “Hi.”

            Jeno slid a notebook onto the growing stack balanced in the crook of his left arm. “Hi. Don’t you have class right now?”

            The bell rang, and the hallway filled with students. Renjun seemed smaller for a moment, caught in the throes of the crowd’s movement, before stilling as it ebbed away. He shrugged, purposeful. “Didn’t feel like it.”

            Unlike himself, and most people he knew, Renjun’s actions weren’t solely bound to his desires. If anything, he acted mostly on careful thinking. He was the sort of boy who ate all of his Brussel sprouts, and then got an expensive robot for Christmas. But his expression was carefully blank, and Jeno was running on little more than a handful of old—but safe—energy drinks he’d found at the bottom of his backpack. He let it go.

            “Yeah, okay,” he said. A half empty tube of lipstick rolled to a stop near him, and he toed it aimlessly. “Isn’t Smart People English in the other direction, though?”

            “Not going,” Renjun said, in that same tone of voice. It was white paint very obviously slathered over a mural of something raw, a self discovery or a sacrifice or something in between.

            They didn’t talk about things like this. It wasn’t that they weren’t intimate, but rather that the idea of pushing that intimacy past carefully outlined boundaries was too much to bear. They were connected by strings too thin and too loose to bear the weight of their personal tragedies. There were people for this, and cartons of ice cream, and stuffed animals with holes where there should’ve been hearts. But they didn’t qualify.

            So Jeno didn’t push. “Then where are you going?”

            “Tartoise,” he said easily, but he was examining a chipped, painted over nail with too much focus. He glanced up at Jeno, stared at him for a moment. It was an invitation without words, but Jeno had never been good at reading Renjun and RVSPing to important events. The junction that stood in front of him now made him reconsider not leaving for Gov while he still could’ve.

            Renjun looked away, brushed past him and stopped again by the door. Incredulity tinged his eyes, just slightly. _Are you coming or not?_ Caffeine, despite previous statements he’d made to the contrary, was not magical, and he was still standing beside his locker and decidedly unsure of his own thoughts. There was no way to know whether Renjun really wanted Jeno to come or just wanted him to move so he could stare at the lockers behind him. In his mind, these felt synonymous.

            _Fuck it,_ he thought, because the onion was already fucked up and he had four more months to fuck it up even further. There was no one who would care about the kind of person he was at the end of these four months; he could nurse his heartbreak quietly, and wait for the day that he saw Renjun again, in the headlines of some newspaper.

            Renjun stared at him. Jeno met his gaze, and shifted the bag on his shoulder before following him out.

            They didn’t talk for a bit. It was freezing, and the cold occupied most of their attention. Or rather, Jeno tried to occupy his attention with it. After a few minutes, his consciousness wandered off to find more morbid topics. It felt like October, in that it was nothing like it. Jeno could see the first time they’d skipped superimposed over now—all the similarities and all the differences—and it was suffocating in a way that made the cold feel like a brief chill.

            They’d changed. He’d changed, and Renjun had too, and they’d changed with each other. How far they’d come. It should’ve made him warm with happiness, with hope, but all he could think about was how far they could fall.

            Jeno sighed deeply. Renjun looked over at him and arched an inquisitive eyebrow. He sighed again, and it was markedly longer. “It’s nothing, just tired. It’s cold.”

            “I don’t see how those are related,” he said, crushing small pieces of hail with his sneakers.

            “Aren’t they?” he asked, just for the sake of prolonging the conversation. “Hypothermia, and all.”

            Renjun stopped. At first, Jeno thought it was because he’d said something stupid—which was a valid concern—but his gaze flicked from Jeno’s face to the small red hand on the other side of the road. It flicked back to his face, searching. Then he said, “I don’t know.”

            Coming from Renjun, that felt sacrilegious. Meant to be whispered, and yet Renjun’s expression was just as smooth as it’d been this entire walk. His lip crooked in a wry kind of smile, and Jeno memorized it surreptitiously.

            Across the street, the hand turned into a little white faceless pedestrian. They started walking.

            “You’re right, though,” Renjun said, once they’d reached the other end. Jeno had just about forgotten the topic of their discussion. “It is really fucking cold.”

            And, despite it all, he started laughing.

            Renjun was gracious, because he often was. He waited until Jeno stopped laughing and then walked a couple blocks with him silently, save for the quiet snorts that still escaped him, before asking, “Are you okay?”

            “You just—” Another peal shook him. He considered shoving his entire fist in his mouth, but that wouldn’t look attractive, or tough. He suspected it wouldn’t make any difference to Renjun, but his bruised ego needed a recharge period. “It’s just—funny. When you swear.”

            His brow creased. This was an inside joke that was only clear to Jeno, and if he hadn’t been so involved in trying to stop laughing, he probably would’ve wanted to jump in the path of an incoming car. “Is it?”

            He nodded, because he didn’t trust himself to do much else. Renjun made a noise of assent, and then started to swear. The vocabulary surprised him most, more than the length and complexity of it all. Thirty seconds in, Jeno resigned himself to the fact that he simply would not know the meaning of some of those words.

            Renjun watched him carefully, like this was his science fair project and if the results didn’t come out the way he wanted, he’d skew them so. Sadly, they did, and they had to stop by a pharmacy so Jeno could stop laughing. He slid down the slimy stone and drew his knees up. He was cold, and Renjun was still swearing, and the world was too bright for an overcast Monday morning.

            Finally, his voice gave out. They stared at each other for a few seconds more, as Jeno’s throat said its last words, before Renjun dug a small cough drop out of his pocket. It smelled like lavender and detergent. Jeno took it.

            Renjun held out his arm. Jeno took it.

            They continued down the street. He was fairly sure they were approaching the Markets—already, the air smelled of privilege and gold foil and bad weed. A shout came from the other side of the street. Jeno moved the cough drop around his mouth and glanced over.

            Jaemin jogged across the street, ignoring a handful of cars the way knives ignored preexisting internal organs. He grinned at them, careless in a way that suggested care. He was strange like that. “Hey. Skipping?”

            Renjun nodded and smiled at him. There was an easy balance between them that existed in a completely different world than the delicate web between Jeno and Renjun. The only relation, maybe, was that they mirrored each other, a harsh kind of reversal.

            Already Jeno was regretting this. He should’ve avoided coming to school altogether, or actually gone to Gov, or keeled over and died instead of accepting Renjun’s cough drop.

            Renjun tapped Jeno on the shoulder and he flinched. It wasn’t meant for this place, this time of day, or these people, and it came out sharp and rendered him vulnerable in a hard-edged way. Confusion and regret mingled in the other’s eyes, but he didn’t say anything about it, just jerked his head down the street and followed after Jaemin.

            Jeno followed. At one point, he’d swallowed the cough drop, and his throat felt vaguely like honey lemon cotton.

            They fell into step together, except not quite, because the sidewalk only accommodated so many people. Jeno alternated between the curb and the concrete edge and focused on not stepping on cracks so he didn’t have to focus on how the conversation seemed to flourish without his presence. This wasn’t anything new, so he wasn’t sure why his chest stung. Most things flourished without his presence.

            But, despite how interesting the snow speckled concrete was, he kept sneaking glances at the other pair. They weren’t talking about anything important, and definitely not anything he could pretend to understand. At first, it was dance, and he’d skirted along the edges of comprehension. All he knew stemmed from the freshmen dance unit, which had culminated in him stepping on his partner’s toes so much he’d gotten reassigned to a broom. Quickly, though, it slid into academics, and then into personal matters. Jeno hadn’t known Mr. Ha’s son had just been arrested for credit card fraud, and he wasn’t sure he cared.

            But it was impossible not to watch them. Friendship, but boiled down to a handful of statements, and then held out to see, without embellishment. Jeno couldn’t look away. Jaemin made a joke, possibly funny to someone with an IQ above one hundred, and Renjun laughed. It was warm and soft and Jeno could suddenly think of nothing else but that laugh. Jaemin held out an arm and he smacked into it. On the other side of it was a streetlight.

            He looked over; Jaemin looked back, watching him with a scrutinizing interest. Jeno felt like he’d been judged, and deemed unfit—he wondered if he’d considered letting him walk into the pole. Jaemin sighed, and he knew he had. “We’re here.”

            At one point, Renjun had stopped laughing, although a faint smile still curved his lips.

            “Are you okay?” he asked, because it had to be asked, and Jaemin had gone inside to make orders and charm young lesbians into giving them extra food.

            Okay was a relative term, he thought, and even then, there were few situations in which it would be used to describe him. Jeno said, “Sure.”

            It came out nonchalant in a bad way, his still sore throat ripping gaping holes where his dishonesty had left tears. Renjun’s expression shifted slightly, white paint gone off white, eggshells in early morning light. Then he shook his head, the way he had the day Jeno had confessed, and went into the shop.

            He stared at the shop for a moment, eyes scraping across Jaemin and Renjun’s figures inside. They seemed fake from here, suggestions of humanity and the faintest smell of bread.

            The cough drop settled in his stomach, unforgettable. Like a bad cold, or a war. He sighed again, and opened the door.

 

            …

 

            Jeno felt like maybe he was aging too quickly. Everything considered, it was to be expected. But it was an abstract notion for the most part, a vague idea of stagnancy and of weariness that lingered before he fell asleep at night. Sometimes, though, it came in more noticeable ways—brief moments of startling clarity in the middle of the day.

            Seo had let them out early, on account of him having to pick up his three-year-old niece from an address he’d written on the back of his hand in lime Sharpie. Renjun had leadership business that required him to cover his hands in rubber cement and scraps of construction paper. So Jeno had gone down to the first floor, and waited for his brother.

            The first floor was a frightening place. Sophomores had nascent ideas of maturity and cleanliness, but freshmen were wide eyed and ignorant of basic hygiene. Jeno observed the different components of a Big Mac at different parts of the hallway and breathed through his mouth.

            The bell rang, and tiny underclassmen flooded into the hallway. Jeno flattened himself against the lockers and waited. Jisung came out a couple of minutes late, a torn apart textbook under his left arm. He regarded Jeno with thin distaste and a hint of relief. “What are you doing here?”

            Jeno didn’t speak; his age had made itself noticeable, all at once. He felt the need to hug Jisung for ten minutes straight and make him chicken noodle soup, but restrained himself, just barely. The conflict must’ve been clear on his face because Jisung’s expression was a warm, familiar mixture of annoyance and resignation.

            He shrugged after a few minutes. The chatter had leveled out, and the silence between them had turned lukewarm. “I had time. Wanted to check up on you.”

            Jisung arched his eyebrows and shifted the textbook under his arm. _Geometry,_ it read out, in peeling golden text. “Okay. Are you gonna walk me to the diner, or to Mark’s, or to the house?”

 _To the house._ Seventeen years had not been enough; fear arced through him, brief and lasting. He steadied himself in an obvious way—Jisung didn’t say anything. “I’ll walk you wherever you’re going.”

            They went to the diner. Renjun was at the other gate, patches of rubber cement up and down his arms and a piece of confetti stuck to the side of his neck. Jeno watched him for a few seconds, and then looked away, a conscious act. Jisung caught his gaze when he looked away, smug and yet sad. Jeno was once again consumed with the need to hug him until at least one organ system failed.

            Jungwoo smiled at them when they came in, and the heater whirred, constant. When Jungwoo was on shift, the diner was always quiet in a sleepy way. The golden light tinging everything suggested hot chocolate and accidental naps on math worksheets, not mildly awkward talks between two puzzle pieces that were too chipped to fit together the way they once had.

            Jeno sipped his milkshake, and Jisung sipped his in retaliation. This went on until a vague sheen of whipped cream was all that was left. They stared at the straws to avoid looking at each other. Jeno sighed, again. He sighed a lot these days. He flicked his eyes up at Jisung, hesitant. “You would—” he broke off, and sighed. “You’d tell me if anything happened, right?”

            Jisung stared at him, aimlessly pushing the straw around. It was possible he wasn’t the only one who’d aged. Finally, he said, “You don’t tell _me.”_

            A knot of frustration sat in his throat, silencing him. That was different—it was his job, his responsibility as the older one to carry these things without complaint. But Jisung was right, and that was the most frustrating part. He massaged his temples. “That’s not—whatever. I don’t, you’re right. You should still tell me.”

            “Why?” His questions held a simple logic that irritated Jeno more than Renjun’s complex abstractions.

            “Because,” he said, slow and decisive, “I don’t want to worry you.”

            “And I don’t want to worry you.” Jisung parroted back. His Geometry textbook glinted in the flickering light of the lamp above them.

            “I’m already worried,” he said, in the same tone but quieter. There was a brief moment of silence; Jungwoo wiped down tables; the heater whirred; Jisung’s careful blankness shifted. “If I tell you, you’ll worry about it. I’m already thinking about you; already worrying about it. If I know, I can help.”

            It was a bad excuse for an apology, but Jisung was adept at reading his crooked statements and organizing them into something purposeful. He snorted, disdainful. “You worry too much.”

            “I know,” he said, secretive. Jisung cracked a small smile and nudged his straw. He reached across and took his hand, a rare affectionate gesture. “Don’t try to be a hero, or a martyr. That’s my job.”

             Jisung made a face but nodded anyway. Something complicated and not easily identified uncurled in his chest, warmth in the place of burning cold. Relief, but painfully won.

            _This was okay,_ he thought. Even shaky balances lasted long enough, if you were careful.

 

            …

 

            Mother Nature, that unknowable, dying deity, either hated Jeno, or had a cruel sense of humor. Both were possible. The sky was clear at break, but two minutes had been enough. He stood at the door of the locker room, one hand carefully outstretched. The rain was cold, icy. It’d become sleet soon.

            “You’ll get a cold that close,” Renjun said. He stood by the other side of the door, head ducked, shoulders drawn together. His shirt hung off his frame, newly washed and still slightly damp.

            “I’ll be fine,” he said, pulling his hand back. “Will you?”

            He blinked, then looked down in understanding and shrugged. “Probably. I have a good immune system.”

            The warning bell rang, and Nakamoto’s voice came from above them, disembodied and sleep deprived. “We’re meeting in the gym, kids. Bring something to do, unless it’s illegal!”

            The rain—sleet, now—had gotten more intense, and it cut the dreary scene outside into silver tinted strips. It looked like a challenge, one that would most likely end in fever medication. Renjun’s eyes were narrowed.

            “Wanna make a run for it?” he asked.

            “I’m pretty sure that’s all we can do,” he retorted, but where there should’ve been scorn, there was soft amusement. He held out his arm; Jeno took it. It felt surreal that this was happening—that it was capable of happening. Jeno stood on the top of a rollercoaster, and stared at the drop down. There was no safety belt, but he wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t sure which part of that sentence was more dangerous.

            They stood still for a few electrifying seconds—a countdown bright in their heads—and then ran. The sleet lashed against them, unrelenting and _cold._ Jeno felt like an otter pop—he felt like a wintery decoration strung across the houses of families who ate dinner together.

            But Renjun’s fingernails bit into the back of his hand—he was present in a way that was enviable, in a way that demanded some kind of idolatry. Sleet dripped down his back; he should’ve kept his head ducked, but Renjun’s mouth was half open in a forgotten beginning of a laugh, and he was only one boy.

            They stopped a few seconds late, the concrete of the gym building flat against their cheeks. It was cold, but not wet, smooth and nocked in places. Their breaths came quickly, rough, and they didn’t speak.

            Jeno looked down at Renjun, and the other stared at him for a few seconds, before choking out a brief sound closest to a laugh. Disbelief and awe and joy mingled in it; it was nothing close to the laugh he’d given Jaemin, but it was beautiful in a different way. It held a warm kind of incredulity; like Jeno was some unknown glorious creature that just barely passed for a teenage boy.

            Then he coughed, and the moment ended. Jeno patted him on the back, but it continued. “Are you okay?”

            “Cold,” he rasped. “It’s—Jesus. Give me a moment. It’s so _cold.”_

“Let’s go inside,” he said, and on another day, Renjun would’ve shot him another look, a withering dissection on his marked lack of intelligence. Today, he just nodded.

            Yukhei was already inside, leaned against the bleachers, one arm outstretched to shield his face for an incoming ball. It bounced against the plastic above him, and further up. A girl Jeno had seen once in a pep rally caught it and tossed it back down. He couldn’t seem to remember what she’d been doing—he thought it had something to do with a hula hoop.

            He nodded at Jeno and then at Renjun, a slight difference in the motion. Renjun wasn’t looking at him, and didn’t notice. His gaze was faraway; he stared at the curve of Jeno’s chin and saw nothing there. He blinked, and recalibrated himself abruptly.

            They leaned against the bleachers in unison and slid down to the gym floor. Yukhei stretched his legs out, but Jeno pulled his knees up. Renjun sat with his knees folded and to the side. Jeno stared at the shining wood under them and wondered how likely it was that this situation was a health hazard.

            Renjun leaned his head against Jeno’s shoulder, and the small patch of dry shirt soaked through completely. Jeno considered breathing, and decided against it. He inhaled and exhaled quietly, but purposefully—it made him seem smaller than he was. He moved closer, and Jeno shifted to accommodate him, unthinking. His mind was a blank slate; he stared vapidly at the war disguised as a three on three and allowed Renjun to make a pillow out of his humerus.

 _Why?_ he thought. He hadn’t realized he’d spoken until Yukhei looked at him strange.

            “Because it’s cold,” Renjun murmured against his arm, equal parts gooseflesh and damp gray fabric. A small silence and a shift in position followed, and that’s how he knew Renjun hadn’t realized he’d spoken either.

            It was a bad idea clothed like a good one, shirt sleeves that swamped ragged edges and ugly, marred suggestions of intelligent thought. Jeno could tell because he could feel the height once again—wind whistling around him and a drop that he could sense without sight. But Renjun had turned a blind eye to so many of his bad ideas before—he figured he was owed this.

            They were partners in self destruction that way. One nudged the other towards the edge of a crumbling cliff, and they reciprocated. Jeno couldn’t find it in himself to be critical.

            Renjun was warm against him, the side of his right arm pressed up in the crook of his waist. They were close without being close at all—a connection of necessity, holding the same amount of emotional investment as a fencepost and the dirt under it. Renjun leaned, and Jeno was leaned upon, and he let his eyes close for half a second and allowed himself to imagine that this was real. It was a good dream, if short.

            He shifted again, warm breath against the bare skin of Jeno’s shoulder where his shirt had slid around. It wasn’t unpleasant, because nothing Renjun did was unpleasant, but it was odd. Jeno could’ve slammed his body multiple times against a car door and recreated the sensation.

            Renjun shifted in position. He wasn’t sure if he was getting more daring or less conscious. His mouth brushed against the very edge of his clavicle, lips parted. Jeno kept himself still with the tattered rags of his self control.

            Eventually, he stilled, head tilted impossibly far to the side. His hair brushed Jeno’s shoulder. His breaths came quiet and constant; after they’d slowed considerably, Yukhei shifted beside him so that they could hold eye contact.

            Jeno could tell why. Yukhei’s eyes were attempting to express a lot, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to understand what they were trying to tell him. So he simply stared back.

            Yukhei frowned, and made a sound similar to a sigh but younger in nature. “Are you sure _I’m_ the one he has a crush on?”

            He’d spoken quietly, but panic still suffocated him. There was nothing more frightening than the idea that you’d read a situation so wrong it was almost ridiculous. Jeno was used to it, but he was still afraid.

            Jeno remembered Renjun at the game; brows creased, expression strained from discomfort or attraction. He was sure, and he told Yukhei so.

            Yukhei didn’t say anything for a moment, just meaningfully looked at Renjun’s head and then at Jeno. His eyes were very wide, hands outstretched and expressive. There was no easy way to tell him the truth—that Jeno was not the kind of boy that Renjun was capable of having feelings for, at least ones that didn’t extend past warm indifference—so he didn’t.

            He figured it out anyway, and pursed his lips. Quietly, he said, “He likes you.”

            Jeno looked down at Renjun without moving. His voice was foreign to his own ears when he spoke. “Not in that way.”

            Renjun liked him the same way that kings liked their crowns, knights their swords. Two different realms of being entirely, and a single, meaningless connection. Replaceable; unknown, and not seeking to be known.

            Nakamoto shouted something tangled and accusing. The three on three ended abruptly. Yukhei shifted back into a position beside him. Renjun woke up, and he trembled against Jeno’s skin. He whispered a quick apology to the onion before pulling him closer with his free arm. The trembling slowed.

            “Class is over!” Nakamoto shouted, but it came out sounding like ‘Grass’s showroom’. Jeno hoped he was physically intact.

            At this point, Renjun had regained enough of his awareness to realize the wrongness of their positioning. He extricated himself slowly but purposefully, expression as blank as it’d been when he’d slept.

            “Sleep well?” he asked. It was a joke, but it came out a little too quiet.

            “Well enough,” Renjun said, an exhale that’d changed its career path at the last possible moment.

            The gym emptied, a leak at the bottom of a decaying swimming pool. Yukhei had gotten to his feet, head tilted up towards the ceiling. It was kind, if disapproving.

            Renjun carded a hand through his hair, eyes just barely bloodshot. There was a comfortable kind of quiet between them, the kind that one yearned for without conscious thought. That was possibly why they were so inclined to bad ideas and bad decisions. The consequences hadn’t yet struck—they hung above them, a youthful sword of Damocles. It was easier to hurt yourself if the pain came later.

            Yukhei knocked his knee against Jeno’s shoulder and he pulled himself up. He held out a hand; Renjun took it, unthinking.

            Outside, the sleet had stopped. It still colored the air, damp and faded and forgotten. Jeno drew a hand through it and curled his fingers into a fist. It felt meaningful, even though he knew it wasn’t.

            When he’d finished changing, the rain had begun again.

 

            …

 

            “I can’t see how the water could be that interesting, I’m sorry,” Jaemin said, carving himself into the space beside him. When he was in a room, it made a difference. All of a sudden, it was impossible to consider the room without him. He cocked his head at him, and wry humor masked the concern in his eyes. It was a bad paint job. “Is it poisonous?”

            Renjun pressed his lips together very tight. “Do you think Jeno was telling the truth?”

            Jaemin blinked at him. “Do you mean in general, or…”

            “When he said—” it didn’t come out. He’d tried to say it before, and it’d just stuck there in his throat, like strep. He took a sip of the water. It didn’t taste poisonous, but he doubted most poisonous things did, when they were clever. “When he said that thing. Last month.”

            “Oh,” he said, suddenly understanding. It was a knowing kind of ‘oh’, made more painful by the clean lack of humor in his voice. “Why do you ask?”

            “I’m thinking about it,” Renjun said, and Jaemin gave him a brief look. _No shit._ He made a dismissive sort of gesture with a few of his fingers. “Maybe I was wrong.”

            “You didn’t seem wrong last month,” Jaemin said, and brought out a hand from his coat pocket to wave around and make everything more dramatic. “I asked you how you felt and then you said, ‘He’s lying.’ Multiple times, in varying degrees of volume. And then you took me home and pulled out an unnecessarily large whiteboard—do you just have those lying around?—and a hot pink dry erase marker and just—worked it out for me. I agree, the written explanation was kind of archaic, and the diagrams cleared a lot of shit up but—were the equations necessary? Were they?”

            Renjun mumbled that he wasn’t sure and hid his face in the glass of water.

            Jaemin’s eyebrows did a complicated thing that meant he forgave him for the equations. He continued, “Anyway, what I’m trying to say is—you did all that and you _still_ think you were wrong?”

            There was a loophole in the entire speech. It hooked in between Renjun’s shoulder blades and _pulled._ “But what do _you_ think?”

            He blinked, surprise mixing with resignation. “Does that matter?”

            “Right now, it does,” he replied. The glass of water was almost empty.

            Jaemin pinched the bridge of his nose. The kitchen was empty, a rarity in his house. His parents had gone out for date night, and his siblings were asleep. Everything was deceptively quiet, the calm before a storm. Renjun could see it on the horizon, but couldn’t muster the courage to turn away. Courage or self-preservation—they were close enough, at this point.

            Finally, he said, “I think it doesn’t.”

            “What?” Renjun asked. There was only so long one could run from a truth when it was right in front of you, yet his chest still burned with a desire to _leave._

Jaemin regarded him silently, and he knew he could feel the warmth of that fire too. His expression was something multifoliate, a warning or a plea or an ultimatum. “I think that it doesn’t matter whether I think he was telling the truth, and it doesn’t matter if he was. You have it all figured out, up there. This is more about you doubting yourself than it is about you starting to believe him.”

            And there it was. An efficient dissection of Renjun’s teenage angst, left to decay on the dining table. He could almost smell the formaldehyde.

            It felt callous; it felt true. Renjun wanted to believe him, really, but the idea of Jeno loving him was foreign in every way. An ocean didn’t notice a grain of sand, and certainly didn’t fall in love with it.

            He didn’t think he’d been joking, though—Jeno’s jokes were warm, carelessly thrown. This had been different, a kind of practiced casualness that had hung in the sunset. Each word had dug into Renjun’s skin, and he’d taken them home and waited for the bleeding to stop.

            He didn’t think he’d been joking, but it was possible he hadn’t been telling the truth. Love substituted by infatuation. It was reasonable enough—he’d proved it a couple dozen ways.

            Renjun drank the rest of the water. It hadn’t started tasting like poison at any one point, but he’d come to the conclusion that he probably shouldn’t have had it.

            “Do you need more?” Jaemin asked. He looked suddenly tired, _old._ Renjun knew that if he looked down, he would see a vague outline of him in the empty glass, features worn down in the same way. It was hard to believe that tomorrow, they would go to school and write nearly identical essays on how whatever novel they were currently discussing was a Bildungsroman. It would be harder to believe tomorrow, he knew. He’d stand in the hallway, and feel time pass around him, fluid and uncaring.

            Renjun shook his head. “I’m good.”

 

            …

 

            Spring was far off, at this point, but it paid them a brief visit on Valentine’s. Jeno wasn’t sure if Renjun appreciated that or not.

            “The PDA!” he lamented, waving a worn colored pencil. It was the same voice he used for speeches to the student body— _Global warming!_ Seo looked up from his desk but didn’t say anything; no one could truly be heard over everyone else.

            The air smelled faintly like perfumed flowers and sugar. Everyone was clumped into groups pressed too close together, kisses exchanged behind raised hands. Boy-girl-boy-boy-girl-girl-boy-girl-boy. Valentine’s Day was the only day on which this was capable of happening, because everyone was too infatuated with their own romantic success to judge those around them.

            Renjun pulled a yellow pencil out of his bag and began aggressively sketching with it. There was something cartoonish about his anger—a puerile kind of irritability.

            Jeno thought it was cute, but this wasn’t new by any stretch of the word. Renjun glanced up, caught his gaze momentarily. Surprise flickered under the anger, something bright and pastel colored. Jeno held it, instead of looking away.

            When class ended, he began to clean up, slow and methodical. Jeno pulled himself to his feet and shifted so that he could see the drawing over Renjun’s shoulder, indolent in a way that belied his ardor.

            It was a line of trees, and the sky above. The colors swirled together, warm and expansive. Renjun put a hand over it when he realized he was staring. A flush crept from the base of his neck up to his ears. “Don’t look at it.”

            “Why not?” He leaned against the desk.

            “It’s—” he bit his lip. “It’s not that good.”

            Jeno didn’t see what that had to do with this, but he slid his eyes away and let him finish cleaning up in silence.

            They walked to the gates with that same kind of silence, easy and won with difficulty. Leadership had decorated the campus accordingly, and small paper hearts covered the walls and the ground. Renjun kicked at them sourly.

            Jeno took his hand, and squeezed it. It was easier to bear than he’d thought; he ignored the surprise blooming over Renjun’s face in the corner of his eye. “Do you have something against love?”

            He wrinkled his nose. “Valentine’s day isn’t _love._ I don’t have anything against love.”

            There was a hint of something meaningful and hidden in his words; his eyes caught on the edge of Jeno’s gaze and lingered. He shrugged. “You look like you do.”

            “Well, I _don’t_ ,” he said, a hint of that infantile anger coloring his words. “I just think all of this is over the top. Too much pageantry.”

            Jeno stopped at the gates and leaned against the ridged metal. He didn’t say anything, just held Renjun’s gaze for a moment, the way he just had but turned inside out. His eyes narrowed; anger hardened into resignation.

            “Love is overrated,” he finally said. “The kind of love Valentine’s day promotes is overrated. But it makes me want one that’s real. If that’s what you’re asking.”

            _Oh._ Jeno stilled himself against the arch. Irritation ripped through him, brief and searing. Renjun only ever wrote between the lines of a book Jeno had never read; they were unequal in a primal way, and even now, it made itself clear.

            “Are you coming?” Renjun asked, from behind him. He’d come to stand beside an oak on the edge of campus, slipping past him when he hadn’t noticed.

            His words ran through Jeno’s mind one more time, the meaning eluding him still. He rubbed his temples, resigned. “Where?”

            Renjun lifted his shoulders in an artless shrug. The confession had unwound him strangely; he looked dangerously youthful. “Wherever you mean to go.”

            _Where did he mean to go?_ Anywhere, as long as it was with Renjun. But this was not the sort of thing he could tell him—they were not connected with a string of roses and paper hearts, and the date strained them particularly. When Jeno closed his eyes, he saw a paper airplane; he saw thirty six Ticonderoga pencils that smelled of old weed.

            He pulled his hands out of his pockets and opened his eyes. “Can we go to your place?”

            Renjun blinked at him, caught off guard again. His expression was unreadable, save for a trace of ferocity that rendered him sharp. “Okay.”

            And there was something more in that too—it meant to bridge the gap between them and hold something out, effulgent and short lived.

            It didn’t quite make it. Jeno didn’t know if that was purposeful or not.

            That night, Jeno stayed over. The sofa slid under him, slippery and exorbitant. He was sure it cost at least as much as his house had. The moonlight came out through an open window and cast the room in shades of silver and blue. It was hard to believe that Renjun had grown up here. He couldn’t fathom how the sharp, wintery angles of this house had produced him; quixotic and rational, a study in paradox.

            _One that’s real._ The words spun through Jeno’s mind, incessant and indomitable. Little about this world was genuine; to be real was to be dressed like it, a hollow husk painted to match a promise.

            Sleep made his last thoughts drowsy, words joined together by thin, dragging filaments. _If I could, I’d give him something real._

 

            …

           

            Renjun rolled over on his bed. Jeno was leaned against the window, chewing on a Twizzler. He swallowed. “What’s wrong?”

            “I left something at school,” he said, trying his best to keep his voice even. Jeno pulled himself to his feet, just barely unsteady, and he was immediately sure he’d done a terrible job. “What?”

            Jeno didn’t say anything, but laid down beside him. His voice came too close to comfort—if he rolled over a bit, the words would touch his cheek.

            _Don’t panic,_ he thought. Then proceeded to panic. Today was a day of failures, it seemed.

            “Are you okay?” he asked, very quietly. He wasn’t looking at him at all, just—the edge of Renjun’s jaw. The flower on his bedspread. He brushed a hand against his shoulder, and it was gentle in a way that hurt.

            Renjun took a single, rattling breath. “I don’t think so. Is that okay?”

            “Why wouldn’t it be?” he said, gave a small smile. “Is it important?”

            “What?” he asked, dazed. His vision had gone gold and red; his thoughts were limited to that smile, over and over. “The thing?”

            “Yeah,” Jeno said, muffled by the second third of the Twizzler. His tongue was cherry red. “Is it important?”

            The fading sunlight and fluorescent lamps lit Jeno from within. Renjun stared at him in an annoying, awkward way. He’d drawn Jeno a thousand times before, but now, suddenly, he wanted to draw him again. Take pastel to the corner of his temple and draw it across the fine bones of his face until it was something permanent, something tangible.

            Jeno repeated the gesture from before, cold fingers against the warmth of his shoulder. A single layer of lint and fleece separated them. Renjun took a deep breath. “Yeah. I mean—yeah, it’s important. If I don’t have it, then I can’t turn something in. If I can’t turn that in—” he drew a finger across his throat, resigned.

            “Okay,” Jeno said slowly. His voice revealed nothing. It was possible he was considering arson; it was possible he was considering what kind of cat food to buy on the trip home. In the brief moment between bites of Twizzler, he’d cleanly slid into someone that Renjun could not easily read. He finished the candy and licked his lips. Renjun’s heart clenched, once—treachery in its most basic form. He blew out a sugar scented breath. “So let’s go get it.”

            Renjun blinked at him. “It’s eight. The school is closed.”

            “It sure is.”

            Sometimes, Renjun forgot that Jeno had a casual, biting scorn for authority. It was attractive from far away and discomfiting from up close. That was wrong—it was more attractive from up close.

            He was the posterchild bad influence with none of the venomous malice. PTA mothers told their sons, _Stay away from him, or I will cut you out of the will._

            In short, he was exactly the sort of boy that impressionable young expatriates with years of parental neglect were likely to develop feelings for, even when their only legitimate connection laid in a handful of marigold pencils.

            Renjun sighed, and it held more than it should’ve. “I know you’re not saying what I think you’re saying.”

            Jeno’s smile was a crooked creature, and he felt a brief, sudden desire to keep it with him, a token of their trainwreck of a friendship. Like a gerbil. Renjun had never taken care of a gerbil before, but he was sure Wikihow would help him through it. It couldn’t possibly be more difficult than this conversation. “What do you think I’m saying?”

            Renjun was vaguely miffed that he was making him say it out loud. “I’m not gonna make you break into the school for this flash drive.”

            The smile grew. “You’re not making me do anything. I would just be, you know, at the school, breaking in for no particular reason except for a desire for mayhem. And, coincidentally, you would be beside me. Correlation, not causation.”

 _A desire for mayhem._ He was incorrigible. Renjun narrowed his eyes. “And would you just stand outside in the cold while I got the flash drive? Wouldn’t that look suspicious?”

            “I’m not an _amateur_ ,” Jeno said, more offended than Renjun thought he had the right to be. He didn’t say anything more, though, just leveled his uneven grin at him and expected Renjun to form rational thoughts.

            Under normal circumstances, Renjun would’ve had the presence of mind to reject him. But these weren’t normal circumstances. They’d ceased to be normal the moment Jeno had asked if he had any Red Vines, and after learning that he only had Twizzlers, waxed poetic about the superiority of the former.

            Renjun closed his eyes. When he opened them, Jeno was staring at him, unsmiling and warm all the same. He said, “It’s too dark to walk.”

            It wasn’t, but that wasn’t what Renjun was trying to say. Jeno pulled himself off the bed in a single, fluid motion and grinned at him, magnanimous. “Do you have a bike?”

            He did.

            The trip was uncomfortable, not because the back of his plush, barely used bike had gotten any less plush in the ten years that had passed, but because there was not a lot of space on the bike. Every pothole jolted the side of Renjun’s arm and the crook of Jeno’s back together, an instant of warmth and nothing more. Renjun counted the beat of it— _one, two, three, crash!_ It was soothing, in a dissonant way.

            Above them, the moon was loose and gibbous. There was something silent about the world around them, a hundred breaths held and waiting. If Renjun moved his hand two centimeters to the right, it would be close enough to feel the warmth of Jeno’s body, leaking and fluorescent from under his thin white t-shirt.

            All of this felt meaningful, and yet Renjun was too far away to fully grasp it. The landscape blurred, a confession played in slow motion. Jeno slowed to a stop, halting beside the gates. The school looked different at night, lonelier. The emptiness was pervasive; it reminded of his house, before Jeno.

            The boy in question grinned at him, not easily distinguishable from the darkness around him. “You know, it’s not escaping me that I’m breaking in with the student body president. Jesus, this is hilarious.”

            Maybe to him. To Renjun, this was a disaster dressed in pink tulle. He doubted the humor of it all would reveal itself to him until the ten year reunion.

            His anxiety must’ve showed on his face. He’d always been a good liar, especially around Jeno, but lately it’d worn apart. Either from weariness of the same tired façade, or a sudden inability to hide from someone who presented him with their true self, a raw heart laid bare.

            Jeno put a hand on Renjun’s shoulder; it was possibly meant to be calming, but had the adverse effect. The pad of his thumb was rough against his collarbone, but not unpleasant. Surprise sparked behind his irises, brief, before it blew away—he hadn’t meant to do it, but he had. It was impossible to stop thinking about that. This dangerous, reckless thing that they were doing; it was a dance borne out of equal parts longing and instinct. Jeno stood beside him, and the presence of a hundred different timelines that Renjun could not explore in this universe carved a spot between his collarbones and waited.

            The quiet wanted.

            And they wanted, in the same way. An innocent, feral kind of hunger; youth in a single word.

            And this was the truth that met them on the other side of the bridge—they wanted, and they could not have. Youth transformed into something empty and heavy hearted. In a hundred years, wide eyed seventeen-year-olds would analyze the soft, aching change that held them still right now. Explain why they stand still, when the world is waiting for them to move (1000 words).

            Jeno exhaled. It was only noticeable because he hadn’t been breathing before, and this breath wracked him, briefly. His voice was nearly inaudible when he spoke. “We should go in.”

            Renjun nodded mutely and tried not to feel the sensation of Jeno’s fingers on his skin, again and again. The silence was suddenly suffocating.

            Breaking in was upsettingly uninteresting. Jeno took in the locked gates, melancholy and well acquainted with it all, and reached up towards the stone walls. Once he was stable enough, one leg on either side, he dangled a hand down. It was meant for Renjun—he knew this. What he didn’t know was whether he could take that hand, vault himself over the wall, and chat with Ms. Lee tomorrow without a terribly shredded conscience.

            Jeno smiled at him, and the moonlight turned it elfin. Renjun’s heart soared. Fuck a conscience.

            The campus was full of ghosts and thin paper onion ring wrappers. The air smelled of old rain and canola oil, and the familiarity of it all under such an unfamiliar sky made Renjun’s chest clench momentarily.

            “Where are we going?” Jeno asked. His voice, like his movements, was soft and smooth. Everything about him felt imagined; a dream splayed on the back of Renjun’s corneas.

            He swallowed. “Main building. Second floor.”

            The doors were locked. Renjun’s heart sank. Of course the doors were locked. There was no universe in which his parents would’ve let him attend a high school in which the doors weren’t locked, in this situation. He looked at Jeno, and hoped his bone deep sadness communicated.

            It did. Kind of. There was no way to know, because understanding prickled across Jeno’s expression and was quickly supplanted by bright mischief. What had he understood? No evidence suggested that it was Renjun.

            Jeno’s mouth quirked in a way that wasn’t quite a smile. It wasn’t gentle enough for that. He pulled a bobby pin out of his back pocket and did something questionable to it before beginning to fiddle with the lock.

            Renjun just stared at him. His capacity for impossibilities had been exhausted for the night. He couldn’t muster the surprise necessary for this entire situation, only a dead kind of indifference. Somewhere in the depths of his brain, a small part of him was commenting on how hot Jeno looked picking a lock. Renjun was quietly thankful that that part was small.

            The other boy nudged the door open and shot Renjun a bright, disarming smile. It was easily likened to both sunlight and chemical weapons. He was badly equipped to deal with it—he smiled back, watery and transparent.

            They climbed up to the second floor. Somewhere along the way, the school had accepted their presence—there were no painful squeaks, or harsh clangs. They made it to Mr. Lee’s classroom unscathed, and Jeno picked the lock again. He leaned against the tile in a familiar way—he was more comfortable here at night than in the day, and vice versa.

            “Do I just stay here?” he asked, head tilted to the side. A lock of hair cut his left eye into halves. Renjun ran his fingers against each other to busy himself.

            “Yeah,” he said, breathless for no particular reason. Before Jeno could put the pieces together, he drew in another breath and nudged the door open.

            The USB was lying in the crook of his chair. It was irritatingly small—the knowledge that something the size of his little finger could’ve been responsible for this night settled in the pit of his stomach.

            The door swung open, and Renjun’s stomach dropped. But it was only Jeno. (When had _only Jeno_ become something real?) His expression was carefully blank. It said, _Don’t panic._

Renjun arched an eyebrow. _What am I meant to panic about?_

Behind him, milky light illuminated the hallway in shades of silver and light gray. Jeno brought a finger to his lips, still in a way that belied the energy that animated him. Touch him, and it was possible that he would combust—possible that you would go up in the flames beside him.

            In one fluid motion, Jeno shut the door behind him and moved to take Renjun by the wrist. The USB was solid in his hand; it bit into his palm, and the sensation grounded him. The other boy tugged him behind a supply closet. Here, they were invisible from the door. They pressed themselves into the maroon walls, like if they kept at it, they’d be invisible to everyone.

            The door opened—the sound was harsh and unassailable. The flashlight from before washed the wall beside them in white. Everything felt fluorescent and loud and immutable.

            Just as quickly, the door closed. Jeno deflated beside him—Renjun didn’t think he had a breath left to exhale. A small, crackling huff cut through the silence. He looked over. Jeno’s face was tilted up, lips parted in an almost silent laugh. The faint footsteps in the distance faded out into nothing and it leapt into reality, warm and bubbling.

            He laughed until it was impossible to do anything but laugh with him. In front of them, the unwashed windows presented the campus as a glassy blue ghost town. But here, they were alive, close enough to touch without touching at all. It was intimate in an unbearable way—Renjun could feel the sword above them, could feel the thread even, and yet he couldn’t find it in him to turn away when staying meant _this._

            The flash drive drove one metal edge into his lifeline, and he let his eyes fall closed and breathed. When he opened his eyes, Jeno was taking him in the exact same way. Renjun felt as if they were two points, infinitely far away, and in this moment, the distance between them had folded briefly. They were close, and that was not allowed but it was real. It was real, but it was not permanent.

            Renjun put the flash drive in the pocket of his jeans. “We should get back.”

            Nearly audible. Jeno noted the parallel and gave it an acknowledging nod, held out a hand. His rusted species of chivalry never failed to affect Renjun. He considered smashing the glass and jumping out the window beside them, but decided to interlace his fingers in Jeno’s instead. He couldn’t tell if he’d made a mistake or not.

            This was what happened—halfway down the staircase, the mural three feet behind them was suddenly brighter than it’d been before. Desaturated greens suddenly became pastel, and fear climbed up Renjun’s throat.

             The nine stages of grief played over Jeno’s face in just under a second. He pulled a hoodie from under his arm and draped it across Renjun, yanked the hood up and positioned it so that the shadows held his features within them. Then he tightened his hold on Renjun’s hand and ran.

            Renjun only really came to terms with the scene unfolding around him once they got to the quad. It came like this—Jeno’s fingers warm and tight around his; the faint shouts of the guard in the distance; the night dark and monochrome around them. His throat burned with a wheezing laugh that he couldn’t expel.

            They made it to the gates. Jeno helped Renjun over the side before following himself, and yet it was still close to silent, soft movements on cement. Renjun’s old bike scraped against the asphalt as Jeno straightened it; Renjun slid himself on, and it felt like they’d done this a hundred times before, and would do it a hundred times in the months—years—that followed.

            Jeno easily drew them out of the campus—it disappeared behind them, less a memory and more a dream. The night swallowed them up, the only sound coming from the thud of them against each other every other pothole.

            It set in when they passed the pharmacy, countless blocks from the school. The truth of what they’d done—the truth of what they were _doing._ The impossibility of it all made everything seem real, in a way it hadn’t been before. Renjun looked up at the sky and watched the stars glitter above them. His chest hurt, faintly. It felt like before this moment, he had never truly breathed.

            Jeno slowed beside the house. The sharp bite of his grin was incongruous with the grandeur behind him. It was an attractive kind of dichotomy.

            He slid off the bike, and Renjun followed. He drew a hand through his hair. “Did you get it?”

            Renjun pulled the flash drive out. It glinted in the moonlight. Jeno raised his eyebrows at it. “Feels a little too small for all of that running we just did.”

            And he laughed. There was no other way to say what he needed to say—he dropped a hand on the curve of his shoulder—another illegal gesture—and laughed until his throat felt hoarse.

            When he drew back, a faint smile curved Jeno’s mouth, like he too could feel how everything was abruptly different and yet painfully familiar. He opened his mouth and closed it, an uncharacteristic hesitation sharpening his features. Used with the moonlight, it rendered him a shadow of a being made up almost entirely of negative space.

            Finally, he said, “I hope you get an A.”

            The A felt faraway and insignificant. He wouldn’t care about the A in ten years; he would still care about this in fifty.

            But he didn’t say that. Renjun put the flash drive back in his pocket and smiled, a lie in its most basic form. “Me too.”

 

            …

 

            Miracles were so often followed with loss. It was a law, or something, some well-worn rule ingrained into the base of the universe. So even when it happened, he knew it wouldn’t last. He could feel it; how this moment seemed to pull away from the future that curved up to meet it. They curled into themselves, separate and stark and polarizing.

            It was the best night of Jeno’s life, or something near. In the moment, it felt a dream, and in the months following it rusted into a nightmare, a creature of nostalgia that haunted him. It wasn’t the best night of his life—he could count the successors on both hands, and it still wouldn’t be enough. But in that moment, it felt like that. Every other time, that senseless feeling of knowledge came after—a lingering yearning for happiness to always taste of lavender.

            Renjun called him when he was getting off work. He cupped his hand around the receiver so the harsh splash of oil was nearly inaudible. “What’s up?”

            “I was just wondering if—” he broke off. “Is that the diner?”

            Jeno pressed a finger to his temple. It was all too easy to forget the feather light weight of secrets in your hand until suddenly, they were anvils, and you were abandoned to gravity. He exhaled, and the crackly sound covered up Jungwoo’s shout in the background. “Nah, just—Mark doing some weird shit in the kitchen.”

            The lie placated him. “Well, anyway. I got pizza, but the guy gave me an extra and I have, like, an hour and a half tops before he realizes that that doesn’t belong to me. Help me finish it?”

            His voice was uneven, so either he was upside down on his bed or something had happened. Jeno pressed his hand to the receiver again. “Jungwoo!”

            The boy in question looked up. There was a towel cleanly knotted in his hair, and something was written in Korean on his forehead in black Sharpie. “What?”

            Jeno jerked his head at his phone. “I’m gonna go.”

            “Take care of yourself.” He waved a hand in acknowledgement.

            The trip over felt charged somehow. He was anxious in a not easily explainable way, and he’d been anxious in hundreds of explainable ways before. Urgency, but warmth substituted the tension.

            When he knocked on the door, Renjun opened it almost immediately. There was a beat of silence— _Were you waiting?_ And then, _Do you think I was?_

Neither could answer the other’s question. Secrets, secrets.

            The living room was heavy with the smell of tomato sauce and air freshener. They sat on the couch together, a handful of inches apart. The television narrated the evening’s news—there’d been a robbery two towns over; global warming was real; their president was still incapable of making decisions that only required basic common sense.

            Renjun shifted on the couch, so his head was lightly rested on the edge of Jeno’s shoulder. Everything about it screamed control—it was a careful acknowledgement of what they were, a quiet plea to let this happen regardless. When he spoke, his voice tickled his earlobe. “We should eat.”

            Jeno echoed it, but they didn’t move. The news anchor explained why Disneyworld had gotten shut down for the weekend, and Renjun reached over to open the boxes. His movements were sharp, erratic, like he was afraid if he took the time to smooth them out, regret would paralyze him.

            It was possible that he felt it too—the thin air at the top of something meant to fall to pieces; the tenuous movement of a thread born to snap.

            Jeno took a slice of cheese pizza and drew his knees up so that his back was supported by one arm of the couch. Renjun mirrored him on the other side, his slice of Hawaiian greasy and half eaten.

            Then he laughed.

            It was right; something that needed to happen. Jeno’s chest loosened; on television, the reporter began to discuss a rapid spike in teddy bear manufacturing. Renjun’s laugh was the sort of thing that sounded different every time around, something that was impossible to get used to. The moment you felt like you were close, it ended.

            Renjun finished the slice and reached for another. “How was your day?”

            Jeno told him. He covered up the gaps eaten away by secrets with gestures and bad jokes and it was just barely on the right side of believable. He told him about how Jisung had gotten in trouble for covering a homophobe’s textbook with vinegar. He told him about how Donghyuck had braided a circlet out of candy rope and daisies and given it to Mark for their first anniversary. He told him about how Yukhei had eaten the circlet.

            Renjun laughed at all the appropriate times. There was something stilted and worn apart about the line of his gaze, but he was relaxing. Slowly, but consistently enough.

            He reached out a leg, and his toes brushed against the inside of Jeno’s thighs. “I’m gonna get a drink. Do you want anything?”

            Jeno held himself very still. “Like… alcohol?”

            Renjun nodded, a floppy sort of gesture. Two mismatched streaks of paint marked his collarbones, and in the dim light, they were reminiscent of war paint. “There’s a lot of expensive shit lying around, since my parents are never around to drink it. Really, you’d be doing me a favor.”

            There was something callous about the statement altogether. A vague, suppressed voice told him that that this was probably the only chance he would ever have to taste it. He wondered, absently, if rich people wine tasted of tree bark and chrysanthemums, and all those things labels promised. The wine Jeno had only ever tasted of warm grapes and acid.

            But it was absurd, a precipitous, brief kind of _what if_ that disappeared moments after its conception. Jeno was acquainted with alcohol the same way a lit match was acquainted with gasoline. Did the wood realize that the fire it created would consume it? It was impossible to know.

            And he’d been drunk around him before—the party, Christmas. But that had been a distant kind of warmth. There had been a sharp line between them, outlined in crimson and black, thin caution tape visible even in the night. But somewhere along the way, the line had blurred—the caution tape had burned away. The ashes were another rule for them to break, and he’d stepped over them, unthinking.

            A fire was only beautiful when you were far enough away to ensure safety. And there was no way of knowing how this night could turn out—when he looked to the future, Jeno could only feel that persisting sense of dread.

            He could think of nothing more unpleasant than watching Renjun burn in the flames.

            “Jeno?” Renjun asked. He was closer now—while Jeno had been brooding over his own flawed, tangled existence, he’d pulled himself up. He leaned against the side of the coffee table; when Jeno flicked his eyes up, he thumbed a scar on the inside of his wrist absently. “Drinks?”

            Jeno shook his head. “I’ll just have water.”

            Renjun wrinkled his nose. “Soda. Nobody drinks water with pizza.”

            He disappeared into the kitchen before Jeno could respond to the ultimatum. He sighed; it felt necessary, in the same way Renjun’s laugh had. He stole the remote from the edge of the table and flipped through the channels.

            “Is there anything you want to watch?” he called out. The sink was running; it was turned off, the water grudgingly trickling to a stop.

            Renjun called back, “When do you have to leave?”

            _I don’t,_ he thought, and immediately regretted it. It was hard to consciously blame his pain on the universe when he kept coming back, kept putting himself through things—things like this. Understanding of it all eluded him—just that vague feeling of _wrong,_ and the accompanying desire to stay here, here, here forever. He shifted on the couch, and paused briefly on an episode of a cooking show for soccer moms before moving on. “Probably don’t.”

            It was meant to come out airy, casual. He’d never been good at things that he’d meant to succeed at, so Renjun poked his head out of the kitchen. Dampness turned the corner of his eye shiny. There was something unbearably timeless about it all. For half a second, Jeno could believe that this was possible—that this was something they were allowed. “Probably?”

            “Probably,” he agreed. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll stay.”

            Renjun’s gaze lingered on him. He’d always been like this, able to read the parts of him that mattered most. Jeno wasn’t even sure if he knew the truth about everything—it was possible that he was just being quiet about it, and equally possible that he’d never pried enough to put it together. He disappeared back into the kitchen for a moment more and came out with two translucent pastel cups of dark liquid.

            Jeno sipped his soda and leaned back against the couch. Renjun echoed him. “Have you decided on something to watch?”

            He shrugged. “There’s nothing on television except old Disney movies, and we’ve both seen those a hundred times, probably.”

            Renjun tilted his head in a quiet, slow assent. Jeno paused on the Lion King, and squinted at the screen. “Well, this’s just started, at least.”

            “I’ve never seen it,” he confessed. His face was tucked into the purple cup, expression hidden by the slosh of dark wine. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and blushed, from either the alcohol or Jeno’s gaze.

            “You’ve never seen _the_ _Lion King?”_ he asked. He was vaguely aware that his voice was high pitched and kind of loud. On screen, Simba was held up and adored.

            “No,” he said, plaintive. “I’ve seen some movies, just not—this one.”

            Jeno could tell that he was tugging at the end of a thin thread, one so old that even Renjun wasn’t sure what would happen if he pulled him apart. He took another sip of soda. “Well, you have to. I want a full review, like. Cinematography. Soundtrack analysis. Dialogue—everything.”

            Something unknown flickered on Renjun’s lips, delight and disdain linked arm in arm. He hid his face in the wine again, and when he swallowed, there was only a faint hint of a smile on his lips. “I’ll try my best to deliver.”

            The Lion King was an easy marker of Renjun’s drunkenness—the closer Simba got to success, the further gone he became. Musical numbers cut the entire process into stages; by the time they got to Can You Feel The Love Tonight, he was veritably drunk.

            At the reprises, Renjun sang with them. Even drunk, his voice was beautiful. The words twisted in his mouth, but the melody rang out in the dead living room, an intoxicating, thoughtless kind of life. Jeno immediately wanted to hear it all again.

            Their old routine, spit out in an unfamiliar way. Jeno on one side of the couch, methodical in his idolatry, awe-quiet. And Renjun on the other side; a star that burned from a distance too far away to give off any kind of warmth.

            The credits rolled. Jeno finished off the rest of his soda in one quick swallow. Renjun’s cheeks were warm from the wine—a flush spread up his neck and marked him in blotches of pink and red and white. The spots of paint made him seem even more otherworldly in the flickering light of the television and the far off lamp. Jeno committed the picture of him to memory, and it came like his next breath—painful, easy, painfully easy.

            He thought, briefly, _This is it._ The it was not given an identity; it was all a nameless warmth, an inexplicable sensation of _rightness._ A key slid into the right lock; a heart held up into a hollow that had never known anything quite so real.

            Renjun moved across the couch, slippery. One moment, he was horizontal, held up against the opposite arm. In the next, he’d moved to the other side, one arm wrapped loosely around Jeno’s. His skin was warm against his. There was a chance that, despite it all, Jeno would go up in flames after all.

            “What d’you wanna do next?” His breath smelled of tree bark and chrysanthemums, warm and _real_ against him. Jeno didn’t dare breathe—his heart stuttered in his chest, hesitant and afraid.

            Jeno shrugged, and it came out a spasm. Something ugly, beside something beautiful. It felt telling, in a way. “Whatever you wanna do.”

            Renjun made a noise of playful scorn. It indicated that he’d located the excuse for flattery in his words and disapproved of it greatly, in an inane, joyful way. He still hadn’t realized Jeno hadn’t been lying—either hadn’t realized, or hadn’t come to terms with it. He stuck his tongue out, and it was dark red. “’S not very helpful.”

            Jeno was aware. “Another movie?”

            He shook his head, petulant. “That’ll be boring. Monopoly?”

            He swallowed a laugh, with difficulty. “I think you’re too drunk for that.”

            Renjun arched his eyebrows. “Is that a challenge?”

            It was, and Jeno proved victorious. Renjun gave up on the second trip around the board. He’d decided to use a small red house instead of a metal figurine as his game figurine, and had gotten irreversibly confused in just under twenty minutes.

            Jeno thought the entire mess had been cute, which hadn’t helped in any way. Renjun had just yelled obscenities at the board and he’d pined, a soft smile pressed against one precariously tilted arm.

            Renjun flung down his money, breathing heavily. Jeno couldn’t tell whether he was upset or not—his eyes were wet, but there was a hint of a crooked, expansive smile on his face. He retrieved his empty wine cup from its spot between the couch cushions and retreated to the kitchen.

            Jeno shouted, “Don’t drink too much!”

            “I’m not stupid!” he yelled back, but the vowels held too many gaps for the statement to carry any semblance of credibility. Regardless, he came back with a full glass, and pressed himself between the couch cushions. He toed the abandoned board with one outstretched foot—his bare skin was milky in the dying light.

            His gaze was unfocused, yet sharp—present in a way that Jeno could never seem to be. It flickered over the board, a slow ache right behind the careful neutrality in his eyes. Why had he asked him to come over? Had he bought both pizzas? The questions were incessant, but ultimately unimportant.

            Jeno reached forward, brushed the side of his hand against the side of his foot, and it was purposeful in the same kind of way. He rubbed his thumb against his ankle and released—above him, Renjun breathed in and out, a harsh, terse kind of act. Pain bloomed over his expression and washed away with the next sip of wine.

            To a bystander, it was a tragedy in two parts. They only spoke in whispers, ghosts of touches. This was the only language they knew that didn’t tear them apart; this was the only path they knew that wouldn’t leave them torn and raw and _wanting._

But that would happen regardless.

            Jeno’s cup was empty. He placed it on the edge of the board so he didn’t throw it, and even then, he was unsure of its fate until he heard the quiet click of plastic against plastic. It would’ve been grounding, but there was little left of him to ground. The soda had done nothing, simply diluted his blood into something saccharine and easily fractured. He felt drunk in a different way, a more dangerous one. All around them, the flames roared and swelled, a symphony held together by careful regret.

            Renjun turned his head into the couch so that half of it was obscured by the embroidered cushion. His knees were tangled around each other, and the half empty cup of wine rested in his left hand. He held it like one held a knife, or a paintbrush.

            He brought it to his lips again. His lips twisted in response to a joke Jeno had not told—there was something weary in the curve of his smile. “Thanks for coming over.”

            Jeno had not _done_ anything. There was nothing conscious about any of this. He ran a hand through his hair and carefully clambered over the abandoned board game. He sat so that Renjun’s legs dangled beside him. Again, there was that strange sense of intimacy, amplified by the space that still laid between them. He said, “Thanks for inviting me.”

            It was the right thing to say. Renjun’s ears went red, and he tipped the rest of the wine into the mouth before unsteadily leaving the cup at the foot of the couch. He didn’t speak for a moment, and the house was almost quiet. Almost; his breaths came ragged, the heater whined in the distance, the sink dripped, and Jeno loved. It was a bittersweet, overly warm kind of love, made all the more suffocating by the loneliness of it.

            There was a universe in which Jeno could dare to step forward, but it was not this one. In this one, he waited, because there was nothing else he could possibly do. A sword does not move of its own volition—it cares nothing for the blood. It cares for the hand, sometimes.

            Jeno waited.

            Renjun reached across the couch and picked up the remote. He frowned, pressed a couple of buttons and pushed it to the side again. The screen turned to black, but neither of them had been paying much attention to Barbara’s polenta.

            His eyes slid down to Jeno, and his brows drew together. There was something delicately strained about him right then—Jeno almost leaned over, so he could touch him on the cheek just once. At his side, his hand was curled into a fist.

            Renjun moved first. He brought his hand to his own face, pressed the back of his palm against his temple. It was an oddly absentminded gesture, but his mind was too still too far away for any of it to be purposeful.

            When he spoke, his voice was wine heavy and tremulous. Jeno was not completely sure he knew he was speaking at all—that steady, cool rationality had slipped away. It wasn’t that Jeno didn’t know the boy sitting across from him, but rather that he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to. “Do you ever…”

            He didn’t finish speaking. Jeno didn’t think he needed to. He used one arm to pull himself up and onto the edge of the couch. Renjun turned away, not from him, but from—everything. But his gaze was intact; something stilled inside Jeno, intangible in the same way.

            Jeno inclined his head in a thin whisper of a nod. The other boy shifted towards him on the couch, but his expression didn’t change. He turned on the television—Barbara’s polenta had, apparently, been good, but it’d been slightly overcooked. On the other side, Susan’s pork chops had been perfectly seasoned. Susan gave a brief speech on a honeyed family history of pork chops, and then thanked her family and two dogs.

            Jeno waited.

            It happened slowly, but never quite set in until the end. It was hard to explain in the moment. Renjun moved closer, and Jeno reciprocated, quietly. They didn’t look at each other. The future and the present had run together for one dangerous moment, and they were no longer able to tell whether that strange wrongness laid in the future or now. This was wrong, it was right; it was both in a bright, youthful kind of way.

            A love that bloomed unseen was not really a love at all. Renjun took Jeno’s hand, and he let him. His heart was feverish, a flame that burned itself into ashes. On screen, Kathryn poured uncooked quinoa into lemonade and mixed furiously.

            The world around them spun—something about the night felt significant. There was a suggestion of motion, of _action._ People moved forward; people moved backward; people twirled in circles, and took others down with them. But here, they were still.

            Renjun put his head on Jeno’s shoulder again, but it was different than it had been before. His movements were melancholy; he _knew,_ and the weight of that knowledge was heavy on his shoulders. But he still curled his arms around Jeno’s shoulders, left his fingers on the edge of his chest. The side of his cheek was warm against his neck; he still smelled of tree bark and chrysanthemums and lavender, above all else.

            It was the best night of his life, and the sadness made it impossible to avoid. It said, _This is it,_ but in a different way from before. _This is it,_ because you can only stand at the very top for so long and there is no way down except to fall or to have a tower made of patched together possibilities disappear from beneath you.

            Jeno untwined his right arm from Renjun and put it on his, pulled him close. Intimacy of a different species; the wine made him softer on the edges, sluggish and rounded.

            It was all a very badly disguised cry for help. But the details evaded them both, as always.

            Renjun fell asleep just as Tiffany was crowned Culinary Prom Queen. Her crown was made out of a repurposed whisk. Jeno felt like there could’ve been a smarter way around that, but his thoughts had become slow and stilted. They were limited to his own heartbeat—to the pulse of Renjun beside him. It felt like this could’ve been enough, if he could’ve had it.

Jeno’s eyes fluttered closed. To hold onto this was impossible, and Renjun had taught him how little that word even meant, but even then, he knew this was a different strain altogether. It was cruel, and that was how he knew it was real.

             That was the problem with miracles. They never stayed long—they lingered just long enough for you to think, _This is it._

 

            …

 

            The entire month was a tangle of held breaths. Every day began with a brief probing of that sensation of _wrongness._ The world, a landscape of normalcy below them, and the air, thin and distinctly not enough.

            To go through life silently wondering— _is it now, is this it, is this even something to predict and measure and digest and grieve for?_

It should’ve been irritating. Instead, it was aging.

            The day it happened, Renjun didn’t expect it, and this felt like something he should’ve expected. But there was no satisfaction in waiting for a wolf to knock on your door and surrendering your heart in the next second. So this was just—the way it happened. Unchangeable; simply there.

            In retrospect, it haunted him. In the moment, he hadn’t the presence of mind to dread that strange, ghostly ache.

            Renjun texted Jeno the moment school ended. Yuta finished his lecture and waved a dismissive hand at the stack of worksheets balanced against the edge of his desk. Chicken scratch handwriting labeled the details in the corner, and the rest was filled out in clean sans serif.

            It all felt meaningless in the face of this—he couldn’t yet tell what _this_ was, but it had something to do with Jeno, and his name fit the statement in precisely the same way.

           

            **renjun _[2:56 P.M]:_** where are u

 

            The reply came late. Renjun was already in the hallways, his backpack open and forgotten over his shoulder.

 

            **jeno _[2:59 P.M]:_** busy

 

            **renjun _[3:00 P.M]:_** for how long

 

            Today, he was heedless, altogether unrecognizable. On another day, he would’ve read between the lines of Jeno’s brief message—on another day, he would’ve felt it all coming.

            **jeno _[3:01 P.M]:_** until six, maybe

 

            **jeno _[3:02 P.M]:_** i’ll meet u at mark’s

 

            Even here—in retrospect, everything was so much more painful, a handful of clear glass shards held in hands clenched tight. Each word manifested another—in retrospect, it was impossible _not_ to see. A tragedy takes two; it is slow and winding and invariable. Renjun could feel all of that, and couldn’t feel any of it. Love was a clever, malicious thing that way.

            The hours to six went by quickly, because they had lives outside of each other and to live in those lives was to be impermeable to the former. The dichotomy of it was sharp, purposeful.

            At 5:50, Renjun ceased whatever he’d been doing before—now, the details evaded him, but he was fairly sure it was a petition of some sort, and it had something to do with the environment. He shoved his things into his backpack—in the background, the monotony of everything stuttered.

            “Is everything alright?” Ms. Yoon asked. It was easy to sense an earthquake if you were listening.

            Renjun was not listening. He smiled. “Yeah, of course.”

            He walked, then ran, then walked. Some untrustworthy voice in the back of his head told him that he’d skipped. He knew that he’d been at the school, and that the sun had been low in the sky. He knew that he was just outside of Mark’s shitty little condominium on the fringes of this shitty little town, and that everything had become grainy and shiny with the suggestion of twilight rather than the presence of it.  

            A different voice told him to walk slowly up the stairs. Jeno’s skateboard was discarded, upside down, by the door. His shoes were discarded in a similar manner. There was something unbearable about the carelessness of it all.

            Renjun knocked on the door. Jeno opened the door, but didn’t let him in. He looked through Renjun, and then at him. He said, “Mark’s not home yet, he has work. Do you want tea?”

            And everything was fine—that brief moment of _wrong_ when he’d been walking up the stairs had been a misstep. This _right_ was the reality—he’d shut his eyes for too long and his fears had painted their friendship in desaturated primary colors. Renjun said he wanted tea, and ducked into the room. Jeno shut the door, and padded silently towards the kitchen.

            Mario Kart was on the television, the pause screen grand and accusing. A handful of open textbooks were strewn across the loveseat—the matching notebooks laid beside them, and the requisite pencils were shoved in the gaps between couch cushions. It was a controlled, methodical chaos, and it reminded him so much of Jeno that it almost hurt.

            Renjun took a seat on the couch and tried not to think of Christmas, of Jeno’s lips drawn fecklessly across his right elbow in sleep. Everything was so easy when it didn’t have consequences; he’d live in pretenses, if he could.

            He drew his knees up. Something poked out from under the couch.

            Renjun exhaled, and thought of the calculus test he had the day after tomorrow. The dance recital this weekend. The money slowly dwindling in that cup in his kitchen.

            _Something poked out from under the couch._

            His heart jumped and twirled—it was a stranger to heartbreak, but, like all youthful things, it was excited to dip its toes in and learn all about it.

            The something in question was a cat. It was a kitten, and it was familiar in a way that suddenly solidified every discomfiting feeling in Renjun’s body. He held out his hand; the kitten licked it. He didn’t want to name it, but he figured he had to—the alternative was simply to sit here and feel the weight of all those sickening realizations. The alternative alternative was to jump out the nearest window. The alternative alternative alternative was to slip out of this apartment and slip out of this town and never return.

            He was being dramatic, maybe. But to him, this felt deserving.

            “Renjun?” The voice was hesitant, but not accusing. Jeno’s disembodied head poked out of the kitchen, and he held a steaming mug of tea in one hand. “Do you want white sugar?”

            “I like brown.” His voice was surprisingly even. If Professional Waste of Space was not an open career opportunity, theater was becoming more and more likely.

            Jeno winced, in an easy way. They were comfortable with each other on a level that was painful, not in its intimacy but simply in its otherness. He cocked his head. “Yeah, but he’s out.”

            Renjun made a considering noise, genuine despite his quickly strengthening hunch that he would not stay here long enough to drink the tea. His internal organs felt like they were being very slowly sent through a paper shredder. “That’s fine.”

            A few minutes later, he came out with the tea. He made a face at the television, shot an apologetic smile at Renjun, and switched it off. Pastels and bright golds and bubble letter promises of victory, suddenly gone to black. A promise, or maybe a warning. Jeno swept away his shit on the other couch and took a seat, letting out a very quiet sigh before he put the tea on the table.

            Renjun took a sip. It was too sweet, but that set in later. The first thing he registered was that he had burned half his taste buds.

            “Is it good?” he asked.

            “Good enough,” he said. His brain was still processing. _What did this mean?_ He already knew, but—it was hard to shove truths down a throat and expect it not to spasm, afraid and unwilling.

            Jeno seemed satisfied. He began to organize his textbooks and notebooks and pencils into something recognizable. The loss of this chaos pained Renjun for some reason. A harsh, pointed kind of pain. _What are we even fucking doing?_ He was filled with scorn for it all and disgust for himself and concern for Jeno, because even now, all he could seem to think about was Bongsik, and what his presence meant.

            “Is there—”

            “We need to—”

            Jeno arched an eyebrow, and retreated. “You speak first.”

            Renjun didn’t want to. He wanted to keep this forever. But he figured he’d already kept it long enough. He reached under the couch, and waited. Jeno was still beside him—not just silent, but still. He’d learned enough in this month to know the difference.

            After a few seconds, the kitten crawled out. It licked Renjun’s fingers. He cupped his hand, and it crawled in. His heart beat against his chest, incessant. Everything felt like a cage—this body, this apartment, this town. He carefully brought it up so that the back of his hand rested against the lining of the couch. The cat crawled out and onto him.

            Renjun looked up; Jeno looked back. They were foreign to each other, and yet, for the first time, Renjun felt like he could see Jeno, unadulterated. It was a sobering sight.

            “Why is he here?” he asked, weary. He knew the answer—Jeno knew the answer. They were just waiting for all the secrets to tumble into the light and turn everything dark and strained and irreversible; something that required a grave and a mourning period.

            Jeno didn’t answer. He repeated the question, and the other boy drew in a breath so slow and rattling, it felt like maybe, before this moment, he had not breathed in months. It was believable, in a slow, bitter way.

            “I didn’t want to tell you like this,” he said. Each word was carefully measured. Renjun felt like he had on that day in January, after the confession—bleeding and vulnerable in a horrifyingly public way, but only Jeno was here to witness it all. Somehow, that made it worse.

            Acid burned in his throat. He couldn’t tell why he was angry, but he was. Something about this had cut his ties to the kiddie pool of rationality in which he swam; in which he stagnated. “I can tell. Did you mean to tell me at all?”

            Jeno winced, and it wasn’t the same as before and that was how Renjun knew he was right. “It’s not like that. It’s not—it wasn’t something that I could _control_ like that.”

            “Okay,” he said slowly. “So tell me what it was like. Tell me the truth.”

            In theory, it was an order. In practice, it was a plea.

            His nostrils flared. Renjun couldn’t read him at all—they were strangers to each other, and that frightened him more than whatever he was about to say. His voice was low, scraping. “The truth is that I—my parents kicked me out. Happy?”

            Everything was slowly make sense; puzzle pieces slid into place, the sickening crunch of bone snapping. The gaps in his schedule; the gaps in his body; the gaps between who he had been and who he now was.

            He was very still. Jeno was not. That strange, pervasive feeling of wrong was growing, suffocating, and Renjun wanted nothing more than to just breathe.

            _“Say something,”_ Jeno said. In theory, it was an order, but in practice, it was an apology. It might’ve been—could’ve been. Renjun could no longer understand anything he said.

            He took a deep breath. “Why didn’t you—Why didn’t you say?”

            “Why would I?” His chest felt tight. A note of frustration crept into his voice—Renjun saw months of pain hidden behind a thin veneer of careful blankness. “What could you have done?”

            Renjun had a good idea of what he could’ve done. “You stay over sometimes. You could’ve stayed over _all the time._ Why did you always leave before you had to? Why did you never ask? If you wanted _anything_ , if you had just asked—”

            He broke off, suddenly. It was one thing to say, _I love you._ It was quite another to show it. Everything about him felt raw and stripped away.

            “If I had just asked?” Jeno asked. He was incendiary—the words were napalm. Fault lines crackled between them, waiting. “Do you know what it is like—” He had pronounced every word carefully, and the pause after was equally careful. He took a single, shuddering breath. “I could not just _ask_ you for things. I don’t deserve _anything_ from you.”

            “Okay,” he said. He was breathless, suddenly, or maybe he had always been breathless and he’d only noticed now. “Not clothes; not money. If you had asked for advice—if you’d just said. I could’ve _helped.”_

            “You don’t _have to.”_ Jeno was a study in angles, but his voice was built of a million small, burning fires. There was something anguished and malevolent about the fire in his voice. He could’ve held out his hand, moved it in an arc around him—Renjun had no doubt that he could’ve wiped out the town.

            “I wanted to,” he said, quietly.  “I would’ve wanted to, and I still do and—why didn’t you give me the opportunity? Why was I never an option?”

            Jeno waved a hand in a rushed, cornered explanation. “Because this isn’t—we aren’t—”

            _I’d live in pretenses, if I could._ Renjun quickly came to the conclusion that he had already been living in a pretense. He filed away the pain accordingly, efficient. He had already known, for the most part, that this was ninety percent longing and ten percent convenience. This was just—unfortunate timing.

            But his voice was still deadly quiet when he spoke. It held a faint hint of anger, towards himself, no one else. “We aren’t what?”

            It was cruel, to make him say it. No one wanted to do that—rejection was ugly and distasteful. Even break ups were easier over text, if you weren’t the one being hurt.

            Jeno didn’t say it. Renjun hadn’t expected him to. The tea was cooling on the table. Bongsik had crawled into his lap; he was pawing at his sweater. Outside, the sun had gone down, and the moon was waiting.

            Renjun was suddenly very sad and very tired and very tired of _himself._ Of everything about him—of his own uselessness, of his own hopeless love, of his own stupidity. They were not the sort of people who could have _this._ And the knowledge that he wanted it regardless, the knowledge that he longed for it in a way that he had sworn never to revert to—he wasn’t sure what part of this hurt most, only that it hurt.

            Finally, Jeno spoke. His voice scratched the syllables out in protest, but he spoke very quickly. There was something achingly weary about his voice, something faintly volatile. “Why do you even care? Why is _this_ —why is it any of your business?”

            The swear words he had neglected to add sat cleanly and silently between the parts of his statement. Renjun registered the words a little late—by the time he had, Jeno’s lips had parted in—he wasn’t sure what it was meant to be. Regret, or astonishment, or truth.

            _Why was it any of his business?_ They were something strange; not quite friends and not quite something more, made up entirely of hypothetical statements and negative space.

            He could see the outline of the statement lodged in his sternum but didn’t want to acknowledge it. _Why do_ you _care?_

            Why _did_ he care?

            Lying to himself recently had taken up most of his energy; now, everything spilled out in front of them. In front of _him_. Jeno was still unseeing, paralyzed by his own words.

            Renjun took a deep breath. Jeno snapped his eyes up, from Pinocchio to a real boy. Regret colored his gaze, and it was too much to bear. They had said too much for the statement he regretted to be evident. He regretted everything—he regretted nothing, with the exception of Renjun.

            His chest hurt. Love was not an easy thing to accept, even the second time around. Especially the second time around.

            The tea had gone cold. Bongsik had crawled out of his lap. The moon was high in the sky, and they had not spoken in what felt like forever.

            Renjun pulled himself to his feet; he was unsteady, and the action was perilous at first. Jeno rose with him. His lips were still parted, impossibly.

            He forced a small smile, and his lips parted further. His voice was just as hoarse as he’d expected. “I’ll see you later.”

            Jeno opened his mouth to say something. He didn’t say anything for a very long time. His eyes fluttered closed for a beat too long, and then he opened them. When he spoke, it was a colorless exhale. “Renjun.”

            Just his name. Only his name. Everything about this felt like a farewell to something that had never quite begun—the unmarked grave sat, waiting.

            Renjun walked out of the small apartment. Jeno didn’t call after him. They could feel it, in a muted way. How far they had come—how far they had fallen. It was beautiful and cyclical, deserving of admiration, no matter how sick. But that thin beauty was no longer something they could easily sense. It was all just misery and co.

            Two points, infinitely far away. To connect them was near impossible—to push them further apart _was_ impossible. A different strain of it.

            They didn’t touch. Life went on.

 

            …

 

            Jaemin knew something was wrong when he opened the door. Renjun stood not under the lamp of the porch but a bit further off—the light cut him into a handful of shadows, and his expression was unreadable. There was something hard edged and sharp about him; even in the little light, he was painfully alive.

            His eyes flicked up at the noise of the door opening. Barely alive—everything about that gaze was faraway and neutral, strained. He said, “Do you have any booze?”

            Something was definitely wrong. “What?”

            Renjun’s gaze hardened at the unfiltered surprise in his voice. The line of his frown was petulant. “Are your parents here?”

            “Date night.” His responses had become limited to one or two words—he was still going through the possible reasons for all of this, and every moment that went by made them harder to discern. 

             “Woojin and Herin?”

            “Asleep,” he said, and it came out like an exhale. He shifted in the doorway and continued before Renjun could interrupt. “Is something wrong?”

            Renjun shot him a small glare, faintly disdainful. It was a façade—Jaemin could see the fault lines forming behind his eyes. He thought to step forward and offer a hug, but figured that would probably hurt him more.

            “Okay,” Renjun said, and then brushed past him and into the house. He slipped his shoes off at the closet—had he been wearing them at all?—and went off in search of the kitchen, at a surprisingly brisk pace.

            Jaemin lingered in the doorway for a few moments more. His search for answers had yielded nothing—there was nothing that could’ve upset him _today._ The coming week was busy, but this was a lull in their schedules.

            He stared at his shoes, haphazardly tossed against the door. _If he breaks your heart—_

Jaemin had been prepared to pick up the pieces regardless. But he’d expected—he wasn’t sure. Not this.

            He took a deep breath and scrubbed a hand over his face. Renjun was in the living room when he caught him—from far away, he looked small, faded. He stared at Jaemin for a few minutes, considering, before turning into the next room.

            Jaemin caught his wrist. “Can you just tell me what’s going on?”

            Renjun delicately pulled his hand out of his. He kept his gaze on the wooden floors. Just when he thought he was going to respond, he heaved a sigh and disappeared into the kitchen.

            There was something cyclical about the entire process—maybe, if they weren’t who they were, Jaemin would’ve given up right then and taken a nap draped over the couch. But Renjun was a creature of silent longing—silent to others, and to himself. It meant that when he hurt, he needed someone to hurt _with._

            Jaemin ducked into the kitchen. Renjun had opened the wine cabinet and rifled around, incautious and morose in a thorny way. Six different half opened wine bottles lay beside him, in an uneven row. He held one in his hand, the cork discarded by the edge of the cabinets. He sat against the refrigerator, his other arm pulling his knees closed. His face was damp, but his gaze was unfocused.

            He knocked his knuckles against the open kitchen door. Renjun looked up and through him—his lips were wine red. When he spoke, his voice was thin, trembling with effort of keeping it even. “I—I think I fucked up.”

            Jaemin crouched on the tile so that they were eye to eye. From here, the rest of the house seemed foreign. The fluorescent light turned them both to ghosts of their former selves. Hesitation threaded itself through his voice. “What do you mean?”

            Renjun had been staring at the patterns in the tile, but glanced up at him after he spoke. Frustration and bitterness pressed together in his gaze. “I said I wouldn’t fall in love with him again. I told myself I wouldn’t. So why did I—”

            He pinched the bridge of his nose. Jaemin slid into a cross legged position and leaned over to choose a bottle of wine.

            “It’s Jeno,” he informed him, after another gulp of wine.

            Jaemin echoed his movement and winced at the taste. “I could tell.”

            Renjun made a face, but the irritation pinched into misery quickly enough. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Three fucking years. Three and a half, now.”

            The bottle stilled on its way to his mouth—he put it on the floor beside him quietly. “I thought it ended last year.”

            He waved his hand, dismissive. He took another long swig. “I lied. To you. To myself. It’s harder than you think, you know, just—shutting off feelings. And even if I had—there’s no way I could’ve just lived with it this year. He’s so much more up close.”

            Jaemin took another sip. This was possibly not the right time to say this, but he felt like that brief sense of discomfort was more from the question than from the timing. “Did he do something?”

            Renjun laughed, brittle and bitter. “Did _he_ do something? Kind of. We fought, I think. It still hasn’t really set in. The truth’s more that—” he broke off to take another sip of wine. Jaemin was going to have to dispose of that bottle before his parents got home. His words were more slurred when he next spoke, the pain far more obvious. The façade was rubbing away—his anger was electric. “More that he made me come to terms with it. The fact that we’re not—something. Not a romantic something, just not a something. Period. Bold, italics. I don’t know what we are now, just that. I don’t know. You know what’s the worst part? Even now, I can’t stop thinking about whether he’s okay. I still want to help him, even though he explicitly said I couldn’t, and can’t, and will never be able to, because. I don’t know. Can I have that bottle, if you’re done with it?”

            He didn’t actually want the bottle. He just wanted to end it on a note that was not obnoxiously piteous. Jaemin took another sip. “I like this one, but the one next to the one near your foot—yeah, that one. That’s good, too.”

            Renjun made a considering noise and finished off his bottle. He heaved another sigh. His face was damper than it’d been a couple minutes ago, and there were tear marks on his sweater. He waved a hand in self-deprecating dismissal. “Yeah, so. That’s why I’m here. Already went home. It’s too empty, and it kinda reminds me of him. Jesus, that’s pathetic.”

            Jaemin didn’t think it was pathetic, but he doubted anything he said would help right now. To Renjun, the world was painted in shades of black and white and maybe red. He tilted wine into his mouth and swallowed before speaking. “Are you sure you’re in love?”

            Renjun glared at him, but his cheeks were wet again. “Yeah, I’m fucking sure. I think I’ve been sure for months, this is just—the cherry on the fucking cupcake of romantic failure.”

            He put his face in his hands. Without removing them, he added, “It hurts. Is it supposed to hurt?”

            “I think so.”

            “Great. That’s just—at least I know I’m doing this the right way. God, why did I have to fucking fall in love with him _again?”_

            Jaemin stared at the wine label. The words were beginning to blur. “I thought you said you never stopped liking him.”

            “Well, yeah. Love and like; they’re different. One’s like— _oh, he’s cute._ The other’s like— _if he asked me to, I would walk across the continental United States.”_ Renjun reached for the next bottle. He did not look at Jaemin, but he could still sense the unsteadiness of that gaze.

            Jaemin knew he didn’t want him to say sorry in place of Jeno, so he didn’t. “Do you want to stay over tonight?”

            Renjun looked up. There was something heavy about the way he looked at him. Age curled into his expression; the line of his mouth was pensive. He exhaled, and it held meaning. “I don’t think I should.”

            He didn’t pry—even now, Renjun looked close to breaking apart. He knew that he was just keeping himself together for him—the moment he went home, it would all fall to pieces. But he needed that, in a way. Jaemin leaned the bottle against the side of the counter and pulled himself to his feet. “You can take the bottle home with you. I’ll clean up and drive you home.”

            Renjun glanced up at him. His eyes were wide and shining and yet there was still an element of dullness about him—a lack of presence. Quietly, he said, “Thank you.”

            Jaemin wrinkled his nose. “I haven’t done anything _yet._ I’m bringing over food tomorrow, so set an alarm to wake up or something.”

            He didn’t say anything for a moment, and then used the edge of the counter to pull himself to his feet. He almost didn’t make it, but he held out a hand to keep Jaemin from helping him. A dark, resolute kind of anger sharpened his features, and then it faded. He heaved another sigh, and it was sadder than the last two. “Can I have a hug?”

            Jaemin hugged him.

 

            …

 

            Pain was a strange thing. It didn’t set in all at once. If there was enough of it, at first there was just silence. A quiet that felt like death; the ocean’s waves at night; the space between a heart’s last beat and the one before.

            Jeno knew this well. But physical pain wasn’t quite the same as emotional pain. He didn’t start to hate himself until Mark got home. Before that—there was an absence of anything at all.

            It built. By Saturday night, guilt— _was it really guilt or just a sense of black and red and oh god—_ was consuming him. Mark had to call the diner to say he couldn’t come to work. Jisung dropped by and gave him something. Donghyuck did the same. Yukhei followed in the steps of the former two. Jeno wasn’t sure what they’d given him—they’d put them on the edge of the couch, and he hadn’t moved enough to see them clearly.

            None of them said anything, at first.

            Donghyuck came by again on Sunday. He had two plastic bags in his hands, and a vaguely weary hunch to his shoulders. His brows were drawn together in—Jeno was too tired to read him. Anger, maybe. Righteous indignation.

            He put the bags on the coffee table and sat by Jeno’s legs, rubbed a single hand over his foot. Jeno pulled his blanket up so that only his eyes were visible.

            He said, “Did you fuck up?”

            Jeno considered the question and took a long breath. “I think so.”

            The other boy gave a single nod, then said, “Do you need a hug?”

            Jeno did. He obliged.

            School came like this—a vague sense of dread and resignation and an anguish that lingered differently from the former two. He’d barely slept the entire weekend; when he closed his eyes, he could still see Renjun’s expression, torn in a way he had never allowed himself to appear in front of him before. Raw, unfiltered pain—Jeno thought he had a good idea of how Renjun had felt, because that was how he’d felt every moment since it’d happened.

            Questions warred in his head. _Was he okay?_ Probably not. If Renjun cared about him half as much as Jeno cared about him, a quarter of the things he’d said would’ve been enough to make him _not okay_ for the rest of the month. He knew he hated him—he just wanted to confront the truth of it, and then move to South Dakota and live with prairie dogs for the rest of his life.

            It was a cowardly move, but he didn’t think he could stand it. The hope that Renjun didn’t hate him; the fear of whatever he felt for him in place of hatred; the sinking realization that he deserved exactly what he got, and more.

            Jeno suspected Renjun wasn’t there when he got to his locker and there were no Tupperware containers. Econ confirmed his suspicions. There was a small chance he was sick, and he knew this. But Jeno wasn’t an idiot, as much as he liked to carry on like he was.

            His regret was poisonous and corrosive. He abandoned his internal organs to it and waited for the pain to stop all the way through art. It didn’t. He hadn’t expected it to, really, but the reality hurt nonetheless. Like the stab of panic when Mark had gotten home— _Had I really said that? Oh. So I had._

There was no way to take back a eulogy. Jeno passed a hand over his face and held his breath, held himself still like that would wash everything away.

            He found Jaemin in the quad after school. He was discussing something with someone Jeno didn’t know—they looked purposeful and straitlaced, so at least that made sense. Jeno had never really had a purpose, and with this done and over with and unable to be forgotten, the vague beginnings of a purpose he _could_ have had slipped away, forsaking him.  

            Jeno was in a terrible mood.

            Jaemin was too, but for a wildly different reason. The other person left, and Jeno moved into the place they had just vacated, beside blooming daisies and hamburger wrappers. Jaemin took one look at him and laughed. It was not a pleasant kind of laugh, and Jeno felt like maybe he deserved that.

            “You,” he said.

            “Me,” he agreed, and his chest clenched once. Aftershocks. You couldn’t hope away a heartbreak, but Jeno was trying his damn best.

            Jaemin’s mouth curled in something—not disdainful but disappointed. True, real anger, the kind that meant something real had existed before it had burned into ash. Finally, he sighed. A brief sadness desaturated his entire expression, and Jeno knew he was thinking of Renjun. “What do you want?”

            _What did he want?_ To leave this all behind; to erase everything he had ever done, said, or been; to make Renjun happy. He wanted a handful of impossibilities, of the kind that simply couldn’t happen. “Is he okay?”

            He wasn’t sure if he’d meant to ask that—he just had. Jaemin was just as surprised by it as he was—his expression dipped into gentle shock and then back into hard edged anger. “Why is that any of your business?”

            Jeno didn’t say anything for a moment, maybe more. It was too close to what he’d said the week before—suddenly, he could feel the sick wrongness of the moment around him again. That sharp, clean sensation of knowing you had pushed something beyond the last possible boundary.

            He put his hands to his eyes, both to calm himself and to shield himself from Jaemin’s piercing stare. He’d always been able to read people quickly, easily. Jeno had forgotten how uncomfortable it was to be on the other side of that gaze when Jaemin meant not to understand you but to take you apart.

            He pulled his hands from his eyes and focused his eyes on them so he didn’t have to look at Jaemin. “It’s not. Anymore. I know. I just wanted to know, so I could—I don’t know. Breathe.”

            Jaemin raised an eyebrow, but the nervous glint in his eye meant that he’d stopped caring about the conversation altogether. He suspected he was meant to see Renjun after school, and Jeno was fucking up his plans. As per usual. “Why are you so sure that the answer’s gonna help you breathe?”

            He wasn’t. Really. He told Jaemin so. Then, “I just want to apologize.”

            _For what?_ Everything. This was hard to put into words, so he was momentarily thankful that Jaemin didn’t ask him that. Then he realized the real meaning behind Jaemin’s words. That brief happiness was supplanted by nausea.

            Jaemin flicked his eyes up and caught Jeno’s. “Do it yourself. If he lets you. Then please, for the love of God, stay the fuck away.”

           

            …

 

            The laundry machine broke on Friday. Renjun kind of expected this—the entire week had passed in a haze of almost reality. It made sense that whoever controlled the events of the universe meant to shove him out into the real world to function. He was annoyed, but not surprised.

            He walked to the Laundromat on Hartford as the sun set and took the time to reflect on himself. He hadn’t gone to school the entire week, citing a stomach bug. He was sure that his teachers didn’t believe him—sickness did not knock him down. Nothing knocked him down in the face of adversity except, apparently, Lee Jeno.

            He was in a terrible mood.

            Jaemin had stayed with him when he could, which made it worse sometimes. The pulsing knowledge that this was real, that it had happened, that Renjun could not just wake up and live a different life. He could’ve called him and asked for him to drive him to the Laundromat, but he didn’t think he could bear any more.

            Renjun shifted the basket under his arm and heaved a sigh. The neon lights were faint in the distance; he quickened his pace. Walking home in the dark had lost its glamour after last week—there was no point when there was no one to walk with.

            The building was outlined in white and blue and pink. _It was far too aesthetically pleasing to be a laundry place,_ he thought. This was like, meant for an old timey ice cream parlor. Renjun felt his pockets, felt the weight of his remaining money, and blew out another breath.

            He used his free hand to run a hand through his hair before climbing up the stairs to the door. There was still a faint sense of _wrongness—_ it’d been absent the entire week, but now it was back, unforgettable. An aftershock, maybe.

            The Laundromat was nearly empty, apart from him and another figure near the back. Their hoodie, black and threadbare, swamped them entirely—Renjun could only make out a vague, lumpy figure. They were taller than him, but that was not hard.

            He drew in another breath and tried his best to pretend that this was something he did—that he didn’t see the dichotomy of him against the scene around him just as clearly as everyone else.

            Everyone was a stretch. There was only him and that person in the back. Renjun felt suddenly heartened. He shifted the basket again and strode towards the row of machines. They were arranged in rows, but there were two stacked rows in the back. The figure leaned against the row facing the back. An oblong object sat, discarded, at their feet.

            Understanding rolled through him—there one second, gone the next.

            Renjun dropped his basket beside him and leaned back against the row behind him, mirroring the other figure. There were instructions written on a stand beside him. He squinted at them, even though he was already well acquainted with washing his own clothes.

            He wrung out his hands and finally turned to the figure beside him. There was no point in dreading this. They could just acknowledge each other and then—silently wash their clothes. That wouldn’t be awkward at all.

            That probably would’ve been less awkward, in hindsight. There was little that could’ve been less awkward than this. Renjun momentarily considered picking his laundry back up and running out of the Laundromat and running out of the town and running out of the country.

            “Hi,” Jeno said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof. yeah... so yeah. sorry for the cliffhanger! i do suggest thinking abt chapter 4/5 events with the events of this chapter to guide u.. a lot will probably make sense :// i do want to say that i think that was the most painful part of the fic in regards to them towards each other? idk i may b forgetting things but SORRY
> 
> a lot of things are coming up so once again mg7 is not... completely guaranteed soon but im gna try my best!! also check my [cc](https://curiouscat.me/sarchengsey) / [twt](https://twitter.com/hwanguIt) if u want any info on why it is not coming if its late
> 
> leave a kudos / comment if u want!!


	7. i want to hold you like you're mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeno didn’t say anything for a very long time, and finally, Renjun looked over, afraid he’d fallen asleep. A quiet breeze tousled his dark hair, brushed it away from his eyes. He raised a hand, as if meaning to touch him, then pressed it against his thigh, and said, “Maybe. But we all need something impossible to hold on to, I think. The world’s too dull to keep us going otherwise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so! it's been a while. hey guys :D some things i want to talk abt
> 
> \- i love this chapter!!! so much!!! not bc of the writing. the writing's pretty terrible. but i think that, despite some of the sadness, it's a very hopeful chapter. i love hard won happiness. i think we should take the time to enjoy it!! it won't last very long >:)
> 
> \- if ur wondering why i haven't posted, check my cc! chances are, i've explained why to someone else already. if not, the reasons are summed up by this: school, and personal health. if u do want to send me a message on mg, please be considerate and reasonable abt it. i'm planning to delete harsh messages <3
> 
> \- chapter playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/varsh-bear/playlist/5F7nW2rLvLcyDzyXAmC8gJ?si=mV0nj4enQz-639ybVMm5tA)! 
> 
> \- explicit mentions of homophobia and references to abuse at the beginning between "He exhaled, a ragged apology in itself" and "Jeno stopped, abruptly", and the chapter title is from agnes by glass animals

            Falling out of love was harder than falling in love. It took a certain weariness, slow and indomitable. But it was impossible to let go of, and hurt more than anything else.

            When Renjun had fallen in love with Jeno, the first time, he’d painted him for thirteen hours straight. He’d only used red and blue paint, for no other reason except that he couldn’t be bothered to take the time to find other colors. When Renjun had fallen out of love, he’d set the painting on fire in his backyard. He’d thrown it in a flower bed, and the smoke had smelled faintly of hydrangeas.

            Renjun had fallen out of love on a Tuesday morning. For some reason, that was the only detail that stuck with him after. Just the vague memory of Jeno saying something, bright eyed and simply bright, and Mr. Son writing something unintelligible in his spidery script on the board, and a sense of change. It’d been in the works for—God knows how long. But he’d only really became aware of it then, too late to change anything.

            After, the house had smelled like hydrangeas for weeks. He’d uprooted all the plants and replaced them with lavender. But it had just been a badly veiled attempt to cover it all up—it was impossible to get rid of a feeling carved into your heart so deep you felt it when you couldn’t sleep. The attempt was worth something, though.

            Right now, Renjun could feel the echo of that strained, long lost ache. It tore at him, a warm, quiet burn in his chest. Panic bubbled in his throat, acrid. They’d been quiet for seconds, minutes maybe, and he steeled himself and forced his gaze up.

            This close, Renjun could see the circles around Jeno’s eyes. This close, he could—there was no point in trying to read him when they didn’t know each other. Renjun was no longer capable of trying to discern basic information from his expression—and even if he could’ve, there was no guarantee that he was doing it _right._

            The whine of far off machinery tinged the air. Renjun exhaled slowly, and flicked his gaze between Jeno and the laundry basket at his feet. “Hi.”

            Jeno blinked, caught off guard, as if he hadn’t really expected him to respond at all. An unknown, nebulous tension melted from his frame and he darted a furtive glance at Renjun’s face before saying, “Are you here to do laundry?”

            He couldn’t help a dry laugh at that, but it scraped against the silence uncomfortably. Renjun gestured down and out to the side. “I’m supposed to, yeah.”

            “Oh,” he said quietly, before leaning back against the back row and drumming his fingers on his thighs. It was impossible not to be enamored by it—by the way the rest of him was completely still, a slow, steady rhythm against his jeans the only sign that he was alive at all. Even his eyes were closed, eyelashes fluttering slightly.

            _Focus,_ Renjun chided himself. But focus was a fickle, wide eyed creature that had abandoned him the moment he’d seen Jeno. There was something methodical, almost scientific about it. Jeno smiled, and Renjun just happened to leave every semblance of rational thinking behind. He frowned, picked up his laundry basket and took a purposeful step towards the nearest washing machine, leaving Jeno and his traitorous thoughts behind.

            Jeno didn’t like him. He didn’t _anything_ him. Renjun couldn’t wax poetic about his facial structure after spending the last week trying to forget it. He would not become that piteous.

            He bent and opened the machine, deliberately dropping in the clothes one by one. The laundromat was silent, save for the faint but tinny pop music and the relentless tap of Jeno’s sneakers against the floor. His nervous energy had filled the air, and the poltergeist of it hung knowingly over both of them.

            Renjun shut the door and leaned back on his heels. He wondered, briefly, if he could spend the rest of the evening on the grimy floor. Fluorescent light danced on the tile, and he could still see Jeno in the reflection of the glass door. He swallowed a groan and pulled himself back up.

            Jeno didn’t say anything as he came back to stand beside him, but his breath hitched for a fraction of a second. It was imperceptible, a tell only he, someone so attuned to Jeno, would’ve noticed.

            A week had not been enough—regrets roared in his head, muffled by the silence all around them.

            Renjun reached for his phone. This was a mistake, but he’d already beat himself up about it. There was nothing else to do but whine to Jaemin about it and pray he wouldn’t drive here and drag him home himself. He typed out a message, so absorbed in his own self pity, in his own self hatred, that he didn’t notice Jeno moving beside him.

            It was just a tap, really. But it felt like more in that moment, and Renjun knew that Jeno knew that too. Renjun stilled, his heart hammering against his chest, and slid his phone back into his pocket. He turned to Jeno, watched out of his periphery as he slowly took back his hand and placed it in one pocket of his hoodie.

            Renjun didn’t look at his face. He didn’t think he could bear to. But the alternative was somehow worse—the hollows of his bones made so much more sense, the worn, loose threads of his hoodie felt like a fucking slap in the face, and. He had nice hands. Renjun closed his eyes for a moment. _Three and a half years._

Jeno drew in a brief inhale, and he reluctantly opened his eyes, but kept his gaze on the other boy’s collarbones. His voice was hoarse when he spoke, either from disuse or the dissonance tightening in his chest. “Is there anything you want to say to me?”

            It was obviously the wrong thing to say—not that Renjun had ever known the right thing—and his mouth twisted in an unreadable, satirical smile. Renjun could no longer tell whether he was angry at Jeno or whether Jeno was angry at him or whether anger had cut out some vital, unknown part of what laid between them, and they were simply left to deal with the consequences.

            The smile finally fell from his lips, and the song above them changed. “Will you let me?”

            Renjun had never known Jeno to be cautious, to be polite in this careful, precise way. He ran into situations headlong and sorted things out along the way—this reticence held a touch of something foreign and self deprecating. But two could play at this game. He shrugged, and turned his attention back to his laundry.

            A rushed, frustrated sigh came from beside him, and he struggled to suppress a smile before turning back. Jeno was staring at him, gaze dark and unfamiliar. “It’s not—I want to explain. And to apologize.”

            “For what?” he blurted. It was not something he had meant to say, but surprise had pulled it out of him quickly and now it sat between them awkwardly. _To apologize._ An isotope of hope clenched his heart tight and then let it go.

            That strange, unknown smile flickered across his face again. “For—I shouldn’t have said what I said. Any of it. None of it was true, not a single fucking thing. You—” he broke off, then, heaved a sigh so long and expansive it seemed to contain millennia within it. His expression was pained, but faintly amused. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper, almost inaudible even in the near silence of the laundromat. “I know that—I know that this isn’t anything, anymore. That I fucked it up. But it was never just nothing to _me,_ and I know I said what I said and I _know—”_

The laundry machine beeped. They both elected to ignore it.

            He exhaled, a ragged apology in itself. “I—Someone my mother knew told her that they had heard I was—gay. In the pasta aisle, at Walmart.” His voice had become very even, his gaze unreachable. The only sign that he was affected was the hint of crimson touching his left ear. If Renjun squinted, it was imaginary. “She crosschecked her information and then went home and told my father. They discussed it, and then when I came home, neither said anything. I took a shower, and then she led me to the couch and took out a rolling pin. Not a wooden one—a metal one. You know the kind.”

            Renjun didn’t want to hear how this ended, but a quiet, nauseated voice told him that he already had. He’d put the pieces together over saccharine tea and prayed he was wrong—Jeno was just elaborating. But it sounded worse out of his mouth.

            “She gave that to my father. And then they—” Jeno stopped, abruptly. He gave a small shake of his head, and a matching self-deprecating smile. “That’s not really relevant. Sorry. After that, they gave me ten minutes to pack everything into a duffel bag. Jisung was still at soccer practice—I couldn’t say goodbye to him. And then they chased me out the door, with the rolling pin. It was very hard to believe in the moment. Only nightmares are that caustic. Anyway, after that, I walked to your place.”

            He opened his mouth to say something—to fill the silence. But Jeno had been right—under the fluorescent light, everything about this felt unreal. Light danced off the other boy’s eyelashes and turned him into a frozen still of tragedy.

            Jeno wasn’t done, and when he opened his eyes, caught Renjun’s again, there was something surprisingly fierce in his expression. “I meant to tell you, then. But you didn’t ask, and I lo—I was so thankful for that. And the next morning, everyone knew, and it hurt because that meant it was real, but you didn’t ask, and I couldn’t tell you because I—it meant _something_ that you didn’t have to know.” He paused, carded a hand through his hair. His movements were sharp edged, erratic in a familiar way.

            His mouth twisted in that old, bitter smile again. “Everything about my life changed, Renjun. _Everything._ And—And you _didn’t_ , and I know that it was wrong not to tell you, trust me, _I knew,_ but. When I hung out with you, it was like everything was okay, like everything was how it’d been before. I needed that. I needed—” he broke off suddenly, stricken. The laundry machine beeped again; they both cast it a cursory glance and turned back towards each other. Jeno closed his eyes and composed himself.

             “If you’d known, you would’ve done something. _Been_ something. Acted differently. I couldn’t handle the pity, Renjun, not from one more person, not from _you._ And I know it doesn’t matter now, I know I fucked up and I know you hate me but. I just. Needed you to know everything, I guess.” He bit his lip and turned away, uncertainty flashing across his face.

            Renjun’s head hurt. _None of it was true, not a single fucking thing._ And his parents. God. How many times had this happened? How many times would this have continued to happen if they hadn’t fucking _thrown him out of their house?_

            He knew it was true. That if he’d known, he would’ve done something. Called the police. Committed arson. One of the two.

            There were so many things he meant to say, but he couldn’t say any of them, in that moment. Renjun surged forward and pulled Jeno close. Above, he heard Jeno inhale sharply, a shuddery sound that wracked his body. They were not the sort of people who did _this,_ but right now they were nothing at all, and Renjun didn’t care enough to rebuild whatever they had in the model of whatever they had once had.

            The other boy was warm through the hoodie, almost still but not quite. After a few seconds, he brought his hands up and hesitantly left them on Renjun’s back. Renjun exhaled, and closed his eyes. When he spoke, it was muffled by the thin fabric between them. “Are you okay?”

            Jeno pulled back. A distant cousin of surprise flitted across his face. His arms were still loosely wrapped around Renjun’s, a thin, dragging kind of warmth. “Yeah. I’m staying with Mark, and I, um, have a job at the diner to pay for things and. Things are okay, for now.”

            _For now._ The unsaid question hung in the air. _How long would_ now _last?_

It was not Renjun’s question to ask, anymore. He blew out a sigh and tugged Jeno’s hand from his back before he could regret it. He didn’t look up, but he knew the other boy was looking at him, scrutinizing him the way he had all those months ago when they had only pretended to know each other. He traced marker lines on the back of his hand. “Thanks. For telling me, even though it was late. I’m—I’m happy I could do that for you.” He looked up at him, caught his eyes. “Really.”

            Jeno blinked at him, and brought a hand up to rest on the back of his neck. “You deserved to know. That you’d helped.”

            The laundry machine beeped again. They jumped away from each other. Renjun blew out a sigh and went to check on his laundry. Behind him, Jeno resumed the foot tapping.

            “Don’t you have a laundry machine at home?” Jeno called.

            Renjun snorted. “It broke. My dryer’s still working, somehow.” He hesitated, then added, “Isn’t there a laundry room in Mark’s apartment building?”

            Jeno made a complex sound of disdain. “It never works right and eats up all our change. This one’s easier to work.”

            There was a brief, comfortable silence then. Renjun transferred his wet laundry back to the basket and counted Jeno’s breaths in the background.

            “Do you—” the other boy broke off. “Does that mean you forgive me? For what I said? I’m not—it makes sense if you don’t, I get it, but I just want to know.”

            The idea that Jeno had not been telling the truth when he’d pushed him away was far too hopeful for a Friday night. The idea that Renjun’s stupid, paper thin dream of something more between them had some logical basis was far too hopeful for any night. But he was tired of walking around eggshells around Jeno. He wasn’t sure what they’d had or what they might have or what he wanted them to have, but he was sure that he wanted _something._

            Jaemin was going to kill him. He quietly resigned himself to this fate and then glanced up at Jeno. He sat back on his heels and shut the small door beside him. “I’m not angry at you anymore, if that’s what you’re asking. As for my forgiveness, well, that’s something to be earned.”

            Jeno cocked his head in a completely un-Jeno-like gesture and smiled softly at him. “I think I can work with that.”

            Something unfamiliar thumped in Renjun’s chest. Love, but lighter. Renjun looked back at Jeno’s face and figured he could work with that too.

 

            …

 

            “I don’t know if I can do this,” Jeno confessed.

            Donghyuck snorted. “You’re gonna have to specify, dude.”

            He shifted on the couch and scowled over at him, using his free hand to rub at his eyes. “What does _earn_ even mean, like—is there a point system? What am I going off of?”

            The other boy considered him from where he sat crosslegged on the carpet, Bongsik in one hand and a mango smoothie in a mug in the other. The fluorescent lights from the stores opposite them filtered in through the windows and cast the room in a thin eerie light, shadows and ghosts of memories hanging around them.

            Mark had already gone to bed—in all honesty, Jeno couldn’t remember why he hadn’t gone yet. There was a reason, though, buried under the homework on the coffee table and the regrets piled beside him on the couch. It was just that sleep had become a stranger at some point, and now the idea of going to bed felt more alien than pulling his sixth consecutive all-nighter.

            Donghyuck bit at the orange straw thoughtfully. “I mean, short of working for him as a house servant, there’s no quantitative way to _earn_ it. Trust, maybe? Shit that you’re just doing out of the good of your heart, small things that show you care? Like, if friendship was a bridge, you hacked at it with a chainsaw and then set it on fire. So, like. Baby steps.”

            Jeno winced at the reminder. “I already do that.”

            “You _did._ There’s a difference.”

            He twisted himself on the couch so that he could glare at him. Donghyuck smiled serenely back. He huffed a cross between a laugh and a sigh out of the side of his mouth. “So, what? I just do everything I did before last week and, like, magically everything will fix itself?”

            Donghyuck squinted at him. “You’re not listening to me. This is why your pet fish died, you know.”

            “He was a _hamster,_ what is _wrong_ with you, and for the record, I am listening. You’re just being vague and superior.”

            The other boy set his smoothie down. “I can just go pull out the air mattress now and crash, Jeno. I’m not going to give my valuable, amazing advice where it isn’t _appreciated.”_

Jeno curled his hands around the ends of the couch cushions, scratchy against his skin. It reminded him, momentarily, of the cream leather of Renjun’s couch, silk-smooth and unforgettable in its opulence. He bit his lip and called out, “Whatever, whatever, I’ll listen. Just help me.”

            Donghyuck grinned and shrugged. “He’s in leadership, right? Model student and shit. Help him out. Maybe don’t run the opposite way when you see him being purposeful and hot. Dig deep. This is like, karma for fucking him over.”

            He frowned. “You’re right. Why are you right?”

            “I’m always right,” he replied, head leaned back against the side of the couch. This was true, but Jeno found himself unwilling to surrender that, even sullenly, so he curled up against the cotton instead.

            “He’ll forgive you,” Donghyuck whispered, when Jeno had nearly nodded off. His eyes were shut, and if it wasn’t for the slow movement of his lips, he would’ve thought he was already asleep. “You’re hard to get rid of.”

            “Gee, thanks.”

            Donghyuck smiled, and it was a rare thing, and Jeno smiled back and let the scratchy upholstery dig into his cheeks.

            When Donghyuck said it, he made it sound inevitable—Jeno would go to school and smile at Renjun and prostrate himself at his feet and hand him the seventy page apology letter he’d composed in the school library before class, and they would be friends again. This was not how it happened, and he couldn’t help but feel a stab of childish betrayal at that.

            What happened was this: Renjun left Gov early, and Jeno got to class late, and Nakamoto split them into separate teams on separate sides of the gymnasium, and Renjun was busy keeping the student body government together with duct tape during lunch, and Jeno spent the entirety of Trig staring at a dead moth on the wall as Mr. Kim explained polar coordinates in unnecessary detail.

            “These are the formulas that won’t be on the sheet I give you for the test next Tuesday,” Mr. Kim said, and a little voice in the back of Jeno’s head said, _This is when you should start paying attention._ He dragged his gaze from the moth to the board, and saw a scribbled mass of numbers and letters that made his stomach drop.

            “I’ll send you them,” Yukhei whispered, sympathetic. Jeno smiled weakly.

 

            …

 

            It wasn’t that Renjun was avoiding Jeno. He liked Jeno—not _like_ like, but just. Like. And anyway, he’d forgiven him. There was no valid reason to avoid him anymore, so he wasn’t. He was just busy.

            But he still felt a little relieved when they didn’t cross paths. A week of solitary and whatever the _hell_ had happened at the Laundromat had made the idea of casually chatting with him at school feel distant, impossible in a strange, foreign way. Jeno had explained away three months of his life. It felt offensively cavalier to start a conversation about the weather.

            He mulled over his own cowardice while hanging up posters for the school play. _A Midsummer Night’s Dream._ He felt a pang of jealousy for their happy ending, before realizing that envying Shakespeare was probably not a good omen for his romantic life.

            “What do you mean I can’t help? I’m part of the student body, right?” Renjun closed his eyes. Hallucinations were not a good omen either.

            Ms. Lee made a complicated, but overtly disapproving sound. “It’s for leadership members only, Mr. Lee.”

            “Oh, say it how you mean it. You’re afraid I’m gonna rip up the posters and vandalize the campus or some shit. Who the hell tries to sabotage _the drama club?_ I have a heart, you know.”

            Renjun’s eyes snapped open. No. _No._ A hallucinatory Lee Jeno wouldn’t have sworn in front of the leadership advisor. That was the kind of bullshit only the real Lee Jeno could’ve pulled off.

            He dropped the sheaf of papers on the bench beside him and ignored how they fell unevenly, how the stack slipped and slid to the pavement below. Ms. Lee was on the other side of the quad, but he managed to get there, through some miracle of God and his own desperation. Jeno was draped against the raised concrete edges of the stage, utterly out of place and comfortable nonetheless. He noticed Renjun, and his expression shifted, nearly unnoticeable. His lips lifted in a brief smile, a haphazard acknowledgement. Glass crunched in Renjun’s stomach.

            _What are you doing here?_ he mouthed. Jeno’s expression flickered into a real smile, a true one, and he said to Ms. Lee, “Here’s the president himself. Hey, Huang, you don’t mind if I help out a little, right?”

            Renjun had not ever done drugs, but he suspected this was what they would feel like. “Why?”

            Jeno shrugged, and he tapped against his jeans with his free hand, the only sign of discomfort. “Dunno. Trying to help out my community. Colleges like that shit.”

            It was March—applications weren’t even a question at this point, but he imagined bringing this up would do nothing to dissuade the other boy. Ms. Lee shot him a fearful, confused glance. No doubt she truly suspected Jeno was here to spray paint dicks on the back of the Arts building.

            He passed a hand over his face and composed himself before turning to Ms. Lee. “It’s slow today, anyway. A lot of people are gone for the band trip—we could use some help.”

            She pursed her lips. “Fine. As long as you supervise him.”

            He bit back a mildly hysterical laugh. If only she knew.

            The moment she left, high heels disappearing into the Main Building, Jeno slid off the concrete and straightened. Renjun pinched the bridge of his nose and turned to look at him. “Why are you _here?”_

Jeno frowned, and he immediately regretted the words. He hadn’t _meant_ for them to come out so acerbic. But he’d left his filter back with the posters, and no matter how many times he ran this situation through his head, he couldn’t fathom Jeno’s presence.

They’d never done this. It wasn’t like they’d kept their friendship a secret, but—maybe they had. They’d barely spoken at school, past the lockers and the tutoring and the classes they kept together. And never after school, never _like this_ where everyone could see and, suddenly, a miracle held in a night was something real and tangible.

Renjun wasn’t upset about it. But he couldn’t put what he _did_ feel about it into words, no matter how long he tried. It felt like warmth and tasted like apprehension and looked like a facsimile of something he had once known and cast aside.

            Jeno was still silent against the concrete, and his brows were drawn together in an expression that looked foreign on him, only him. Seriousness painted to fit a youthful face. He opened his mouth, as if to apologize, and Renjun knew he couldn’t bear to hear whatever he was going to say.

            “I’m sorry,” he cut in. Jeno’s mouth thinned. “That was rude of me to say. I just—Why _are_ you here? You’ve never—We’ve never—”

            It reminded him of what Jeno had said to him, but fundamentally different, somehow. Lost, where he’d been distant, cold. _Hope,_ he realized suddenly. That’s what he’d felt, what he still felt about Jeno being here, real, warm, careless and yet uncharacteristically tense.

            “I’m turning over a new leaf,” he said slowly, and even that was different. He looked up from the cement, caught Renjun’s eyes with a quiet, soft kind of warmth. Renjun was fairly sure that he was no longer speaking about leadership. “If you don’t want me to be here, then I’ll leave. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

            “No,” he said, throwing up a hand too quickly. “No, stay.” He glanced away from Jeno, away from the hint of amusement coloring his expression. “I wasn’t lying. We do need help. _I_ need help.”

            Jeno met his gaze, and it was possible that he knew that Renjun was no longer speaking about leadership either. His lips twisted in a mischievous grin, and yet Renjun could still see the ghost of his solemnity. “Are you gonna show me the ropes or not, chief?”

            And so they hung posters in near silence, until Jeno decided enough was enough fifteen minutes in and began poking fun at the design of the posters, and the actors—who he’d known in daycare, apparently—and finally, at the play itself.

            “Straight people are crazy,” he declared, stepping off a bench and holding up his remaining posters like a torch. Renjun felt inclined to agree with him, but he was also still crumbling under the weight of his own crazy, indefatigable crush, so he straightened his papers and caught up with him.

            “What’s so crazy about love?” he asked, and Jeno gave a dry, sardonic laugh.

            “This is rich,” he said, but there was something quietly fond about it, so Renjun let it go. “I thought you said you were looking for a _real_ love. Like _all_ of the love in that shit show was from some spell or another.”

            Renjun shrugged. “Love’s love. And what about Hermia and Lysander?”

            Jeno raised an eyebrow, expression unreadable, and paused to hang up a poster before turning back to him. “I guess. One out of three aren’t exactly the best odds, though.”

            “Maybe,” he said, and taped a poster to a concrete column. He could feel Jeno’s eyes on his back.

            The next time Jeno came to help, Ms. Lee threatened to call the principal until Renjun convinced her to calm down. The time after that, she asked him why he was really here, and walked away, infuriated, when he calmly attempted to explain the Big Bang to her. And every time after that, Renjun got there first, and she gave up.    

           

            …

 

            Jeno knew something was wrong when he was going up the stairs that morning.

            The problem with Mark’s apartment building—or rather, one of the many, many problems with his apartment building—was that when someone used the stove or oven in any of the apartments, every single person in the building knew. The sound echoed through the walls and hung in the air, a groaning kind of sound, one that spoke of great distress and maybe constipation.

            He’d gotten another job, against his better judgement, as well as Mark’s, and Yukhei’s. They hadn’t told Donghyuck and Jisung yet, if only because Jisung would attack him physically, and Donghyuck would attack him verbally, and he didn’t feel up to facing his own stupidity just yet.

            As it was, Mark and Yukhei had only relented under one condition: Mark worked with Jeno. Which wasn’t _necessary,_ really, since Mark scraped by but kept his head above water, and he didn’t _need_ the extra money. Which was a case that Jeno had tried to make. Which had gone pretty terrible, as expected.

            “I _need_ this new album,” he had told Jeno, with the completely contrived air of a five year old. “I _need_ a new skateboard. These are necessities! It’s not my fault I need less boring things than you.”

            Jeno appreciated it, even though he never said. Begging Sicheng for extra hours was nothing like working at the gas station overnight, and without Mark, he probably would’ve peed himself the first night there.

            But now they were climbing up the stairs a couple hours before dawn, and the screams of souls in damnation were echoing through the walls, and panic crept up Jeno’s throat and curled up, silencing him.

            “Someone’s probably making ramen,” Mark reassured him, putting a hand on his shoulder as he pulled past. But there was a sharp, hard line to his face too, one that hadn’t been there when they’d left.

            He opened the door quietly, going slow enough that the creak in the frame never reared its head. Mark followed, and under different circumstances, it would’ve been hilarious to see them tip toe through their own apartment, but right then, Jeno couldn’t see the humor.

            A familiar bag was leaned against the couch, and Jeno stared at it for a few minutes before sagging against the wall in relief. Mark shot him a confused look. _What?_

Jeno drew in a long breath, and called, “Renjun?”

            There was a beat of silence, and then a head popped out of the kitchen. “Yeah?”

            Mark swore, and hit his head on the coat closet door. “Oh my God. Oh my God. How did you get in my house?”

            Renjun cocked his head. He was dressed in little more than pajamas, a sweatshirt several sizes too big and pajama pants with small apples on them. “Jeno gave me the key, a while ago.”

            “For _emergencies._ How,” he said, and his voice was more than a little bit strangled, “Does this qualify as an emergency?”

            Renjun arched an eyebrow, weariness suddenly stripped from his face. He seemed both amused and extremely disappointed, like a teacher handing back a test that you’d given up on in favor of illustrating a comic strip between the problems. “I came over yesterday, remember? You have _no food in your fridge.”_

Mark pursed his lips. “But the gas bill—”

            Renjun waved a hand. “It’s only for breakfast. I brought over the rest of the food.”

            He disappeared back into the kitchen, and Jeno was left wondering what he’d meant when he’d said _‘the rest of the food’._

            Mark appeared faintly shell-shocked. “So this is why you didn’t tell him.”

            “I can hear you!”

            Terror flickered in the other boy’s eyes. _I’ve created a monster,_ Jeno thought, and patted Mark’s shoulder before ducking into the kitchen. There were five Tupperware containers on the other counter. They were hastily labeled with neither Renjun nor Donghyuck’s handwriting. “Where did you get all this food from?”

            “Jaemin’s mom,” he said without looking up from the stove. “She always has extras. They give them to me, usually.”

            “So why are you giving them to me?”

            He shrugged and fiddled with a switch. “You guys need them more. She’s just trying to fatten me up.”

            Jeno, for the first time, felt out of place in Mark’s apartment. He crossed the cramped kitchen, stood by Renjun without looking over at him. He smelled like turpentine and bell peppers. He clenched his fingers into fists, and said, “You didn’t have to come.”

            “Yep,” Renjun replied, with barely any inflection. They watched the omelet cook and didn’t speak. “I didn’t. But I did. No one has to do anything, Jeno. I want to do this. Is that okay?”

            And there was something foreign, almost tremulous in his voice, a kind of quiet uncertainty that they’d never held out to each other, at least not in words.

            _It is,_ he thought, and said it out loud, and watched the tension melt from Renjun’s frame and realized that it was still so late, still so early. “Why are you even awake right now?”

            “Couldn’t sleep,” he said, and Jeno caught sight of dark circles around his eyes. There were still parts of him that he couldn’t quite understand, skeletons in his closet that stood over him and cast a shadow so light it was barely visible. He caught him looking, and looked over, exhaustion melting into a glassy warmth.

            Jeno wanted to kiss him, and he could’ve. It would’ve been so easy, and it was so, so hard, because even patched back together, they were too close to falling apart. Even now, he was not the sort of person who could want this from Renjun.

            “You better eat the food,” he said finally, and turned off the stove. “All of it. I’ll check.”

            “I will,” he said, and words stuck in his throat all wrong, close to spilling out, and Mark stuck his head in the kitchen with eyes characteristically wide.

            “You are an angel,” he said to Renjun, staring at the omelet just past him. _That’s my line,_ Jeno thought, and nodded instead. The other boy ducked his head, ears red.

            “Flatterers,” he mumbled, and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m gonna get back now, see if I can sleep a little. You two should, uh, eat.”

            Jeno reached out a hand too late for it to be organic, casual. “It’s too late. It’s dangerous. I’ll just walk you back at dawn.”

            Renjun shook his head. “It’s fine. I’ll see you in Econ.”

            When he’d left, and they’d finished the omelet, Mark gave him a meaningful look, the kind he saved for bad news and Donghyuck. “Charmer.”

            “What.”

            Mark waved a hand. “I don’t know what kind of Jeno magic you pulled—” he made a disdainful sound, “—But you’re obviously forgiven. Somehow.”

            Jeno thought of the food in the kitchen, the easy warmth with which they spoke now, elbows pressed against elbows between classes. He thought, and thought, and thought, and knew that there was no way to pick it apart, no way to understand a boy that operated on a different plane of existence altogether.

            But maybe it didn’t matter that he didn’t understand all of him. Love filled in the gaps, and that was enough for now.

 

            …

 

            “Jeno! Someone’s here for you!”

            Sicheng’s voice cut through the air, and he pulled an earbud away to shout back, “Who is it?”

            There was something amused in his voice when he answered, something inherently untrustworthy about the way he said, “Come and see!”

            It couldn’t be Mark—he was working. Yukhei had practice, then homework. Donghyuck was babysitting Jisung. Panic shot down his back. It couldn’t be his parents. They wouldn’t come—they wouldn’t _know_ to come.

            Renjun was leaned against a booth beside the door, a knot of blankets gathered in his arms. They swamped him in blue green fleece, the edges of his hoodie barely visible. Sicheng smirked at Jeno, brows arched suggestively, before clapping a hand on his back and disappearing into the kitchen.

            “Hey,” he squeaked out, and if he was a tiny bit breathless, that had nothing to do with Renjun. Nothing at all. Flipping patties was strenuous work, after all. “What’s up? It’s almost midnight.”

            Renjun stared into space, which was the first sign that something was wrong. He held up the blankets, and quickly said, “For tonight.”

            He frowned. “I’m not staying overnight.”

            He raised an eyebrow. “That’s not what you told Jungwoo.” Who’d told Sicheng, who’d told Renjun. Of course. His self deprecating complaints were no longer a safe zone.

            Jeno sighed. “Okay, okay. Thanks. I was just gonna do homework, anyway, but, uh. Thanks.”

            Renjun ducked his head in a nod, passed a hand over the back of his neck bashfully. There was something else, Jeno realized, some other reason he was here. Hesitation wound through his heart, and held him taut. He ventured, “Is there anything else?”

            Renjun looked up, and it was only then that Jeno realized he’d been staring at the tile the entire time—his hair fell into his eyes, damp against his skin. The circles around his eyes had darkened, and there was something faintly volatile about his gaze, anxious and ragged and worn down.

            “Yeah,” he said, and fidgeted with the blankets before putting them down on the booth beside him. This was the second sign that something was wrong—Renjun didn’t fidget. It simply wasn’t something he did. He was far too assured, far too composed to come apart so obviously. He cleared his throat. “I, uh, wanted to talk to you about something.”

            And it was important, obviously, because nothing insignificant could wind Renjun into coils like this. He stuck his head back into the kitchen. “I’m going to take my break now!”

            Sicheng grunted and waved a hand in acquiescence, which, coming from him, was as close to an enthusiastic farewell as it got. Jeno ducked back into the diner and placed the blankets on the seat of the booth, creating a small blanket nest and then tucking himself in it. They smelled like lavender and detergent. He offered one of the looser ones to Renjun, but he shook his head harshly, examining his painted over nails with far too much focus.

            “So?” he prompted, and regretted it when Renjun flinched, just slightly. Quieter, he continued, “Did something happen?”

            The other boy blew out a breath, jagged energy melting out into a familiar exhaustion. He coughed a dry laugh, ran a hand through his hair. “More like something’s been happening. I just figured—you told me your secret. That was hard. It must’ve been hard.”

            It had been, but it wasn’t polite to say that, so he said, “Not really.”

            Lying to Renjun functioned pretty much the same way as racing against a cheetah, or an Olympian on steroids. His mouth quirked to the side in a shadow of amusement. “Anyway, I just thought that I’d return the favor. You know. Secret for a secret. It’s the least I can do.”

            Jeno thought the least he could do was ignore Jeno altogether. Which he’d disregarded in favor of coddling him with equal parts affection and friendly disappointment. He did not think that Renjun was obligated to give up one of his own secrets just to satisfy some kind of fucking blood debt they had going. He told him so, but he was still wrapped in a patchwork blanket, so it was possible that he wasn’t able to achieve the effect he’d meant to achieve.

            “I guess,” he said, and even that was weary in an entirely un-Renjun-like way. He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I want you to know, though. I think you should, and it would feel wrong if you didn’t.”

            There was no way for him to argue against that, so he just tilted his head. “Okay.”

            “Okay,” Renjun repeated, and rubbed at his eyes. He inhaled slowly, and let it go with equal care. Then he said, “In November. I asked you to get the paints. For the project. Do you remember that?”

            Jeno did, but vaguely, more a spark of righteous anger than anything else. He couldn’t see why it was even tangentially related to this. “Yeah?”

            “Well,” he said, and for a moment it felt like that was all he was going to say. _Well,_ and then, maybe, _I’ll see you tomorrow, then!_ But he continued, even though every word came slowly, painfully, as if it hurt him to say. “I was an accident, mostly. My parents are—were—meticulous about these things, but. I don’t know. They fucked up. And my mom’s family wouldn’t let her have an abortion. So they just had me instead. It was—they never wanted me, not really, but at first they tried.”

            “Tried to what?” Jeno could barely believe was speaking in real words. His head pounded. The blankets felt like more of a prison than a home.

            “Tried to love me,” he said carelessly. “But I was never what they wanted, even though I tried, and they tried. So they just, um. Stopped trying. But I’m still a minor, you know.”

            Jeno closed his eyes, took a breath. When he opened them, Renjun was quiet, eyes shut in the same faraway, pained way. He continued, “They’re still my legal guardians, and all, but they don’t come by a lot. They leave me some money for the month, and I take care of myself, and that’s it.”

            _That’s it._ It sounded so normal coming from him, but he supposed that to him, it _was_ normal. But there was still something apprehensive about his timbre, a knife hanging by a thread over the conversation. “They don’t—they don’t leave enough usually. They’ve never left enough.”

            It was not enough to say that Jeno was angry. He had never felt like this before, really, except for an isolated incident in which his father had laid a hand on Jisung.

            “Which is why—” he pinched the bridge of his nose, looked away, as if bashful. “Which is why I had to ask you for the paints. I know I’m weird about money, sometimes. I’m sorry.”

            _I’m sorry._ Jeno pulled down the blankets, and looked up at him. “Pardon my French, or whatever the fuck, but I fucking hate your parents.”

            He gave a small, half hearted smile. “You’ve never even met them.”

            “I don’t need to,” he said, and he was only really running on the fumes of the Monster drink he’d had, like, two hours ago and his own anger, but if he had met them, then and there, they would’ve had a very heated conversation. “Jesus Christ. I’m so sorry.”

            Renjun lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “It’s not as bad as your situation. There’s still water and gas. It’s okay. It’s not a big deal, but it’s—interfered with some things, and I, um, just wanted you to know.”

            Jeno reached out and took the other boy’s hand suddenly, and he looked up, faintly surprised. In all truth, he wasn’t fully sure why he’d done it, a hint of an impulse and a fierce kind of fondness. “Thanks. For telling me.”

            He relaxed, finally, the tension in his bones slowly dissipating. He looked suddenly exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept in days. “It’s nothing.”

            “Jeno! Get your ass back here!”

            They both jumped apart, and Jeno blinked. He had never heard Jungwoo curse before, and quickly came to the conclusion that he never wanted to hear him curse ever again. Renjun smiled, a brief, sardonic creature that held a certain measure of warmth. “You should go. They’re waiting.”

            He bit his lip. “Okay, but. Stay here.” He held out the blankets, pooling around him. “Take a nap, or something. I was gonna ask you for your help on the Econ homework anyway.”

            Renjun brightened slightly. Jeno wasn’t sure if he’d meant to sleep that night, but at least this way, he could help, somehow. At least this way, he could make sure he got a little rest.

 

            …

 

            Every other night, Jeno took him out of town.

            It started a couple nights after he told him about his parents. There was no way to assume that they weren’t related, but Renjun never brought it up regardless.

            His phone buzzed at one, which was usually when Jeno got off work at the diner. When he worked at the gas station, he didn’t come over. He’d tried, once, and Renjun had sent him home, because it was nearly five in the morning, and at least one of them was going to get some sleep.

            Renjun stared at the screen. _Hey,_ and then a bright red heart emoji, and it meant nothing, and he knew that, but it felt like something real. How far teen romance had fallen—how little he cared.

            Mark’s old navy blue pick up truck idled near the carefully manicured lawn. Jeno’s head was laid back against the car seat, eyes shuttered closed. If it wasn’t for the tap of his nails against the wheel, Renjun would’ve thought him asleep.

            He knocked on the door, and his eyes snapped open. He smiled, faintly, and unlocked the door.

            “Where are you taking me?” he asked, when they’d pulled away and flipped through a few shitty radio channels before finally turning it off in favor of the quiet night bright silence. Jeno never had an answer, and Renjun never had a reason to ask him, but still, they kept it up. It felt right, somehow. All they knew how to do was accomplish useless routines and pray that one day they’d no longer be useless.

            Jeno rolled down his window, balanced his elbow on the edge. The truck slid down the road, quiet save for the thrum of the engine. Then he smiled, and it was at the sky, but Renjun knew it was meant for him. “Do you ever think about getting out of this town? For good. ‘Cause, like. You could, if you wanted to.”

            “You could, too,” he said carefully, and traced the carvings on the plastic. M + D 4EVA, in a heart. It was cute, in a sickly sweet kind of way.

            Jeno laughed, humorless and still warm. “Nah, I can’t. I’ll stay here forever, I think. I’d leave if I could, though. You’ll have to do it for me.”

            His mouth felt dry. Graduation still felt far away, even though it crept closer every day. In a handful of months, he could leave. In a handful of months, he could leave everything, and he’d never have to look back.

            Except he couldn’t, and that scared him.

            Renjun didn’t answer, and Jeno didn’t push him. He pulled over on the side of the freeway, at the base of the hills. In the dark of night, the golden grass looked nearly silver, wavering in the breeze. Jeno got out first, and then offered him a hand, pulled him into the bed of the truck.

            It was a cloudless night, for once, and the stars danced across the black, endless and infinite in a way that felt enviable, in a way that he knew he’d never be able to dream of achieving. They would change, for better or for worse, and the stars would still hang above. He almost took Jeno’s hand, in a sudden, uncharacteristic show of fear and of youth. Maybe if he held on, this wouldn’t change—everything would, but they’d stay, and that’d be okay.

            But he didn’t, just curled his hands into fists and held them to his chest. “Can I tell you a secret, Jeno?”

            “Another one?” he joked, but it was quiet, worn at the edges. “Yeah, go ahead.”

            He exhaled for what felt like millennia. “My birthday’s in a week.”

            “I know,” he whispered back, which was surprising. Renjun hadn’t expected him to know, hadn’t expected him to care. But he was beginning to realize that he knew less of Jeno than he’d thought—that he’d painted him in shades of distance and indecipherable beauty. But he was here, and he was close, and there was so much about him that Renjun didn’t know, so much that he wanted the time to learn and the time to love.

            “When I turn eighteen, my parents were going to stop leaving the money. My grandma wouldn’t let them, so they decided to leave it until graduation. After that—I’m on my own. They—They haven’t kicked me out, haven’t said they’re gonna kick me out, but. I can guess that it’ll have to happen.”

            Jeno didn’t answer, and Renjun didn’t want him to, suddenly, and so he kept talking, quicker than before. “I’ve been saving up money, though. For years. I have thousands, by now. It’ll last me a while. But—they said they’d pay my tuition if I got into this, uh, list of colleges they had. Like. Ivy Leagues. But I—”

            He uncurled his hands, laid them by his sides. Jeno reached out and took one in his hand, tightened his fingers around Renjun’s. They didn’t look over, but it was enough, somehow.

            “I really, really don’t want to go to one of those colleges,” he whispered, and turned so if he looked up, he’d see Jeno’s profile. He didn’t, kept his eyes on his shoulder. “I don’t want to stay—stay locked in this family. I don’t want… _this._ I want to go to college on my own terms, succeed on my own terms. But—they’d pay, and I know that if I go to a smaller university, they _won’t,_ and. It feels selfish, stupid, doing this when I could swallow my own pride and go to a college that people would _kill_ to go to, you know?”

            “What’s the secret?” Jeno whispered, so quiet Renjun almost didn’t hear him.

            He blinked over at him, then deflated, curling into himself. “I didn’t—apply to all of the colleges they wanted me to apply for. Only to one. And, if I’m being honest with myself, I really hope they reject me. I’m scared that—when they find out, they’ll cut me off then. I think—I think they were planning to maybe provide for me until next fall, until I really had to leave, but when they come and visit, things will—” he untangled his hands from Jeno’s and mimed a small explosion.

            Jeno’s expression tightened. “They’d better not.”

            He laughed suddenly, and it was a surprise to him, and apparently, to Jeno. Even after it subsided, the ghost of it made his chest warm. “I appreciate you offering to defend my honor. Really.”

            His features softened, and it was only that that made Renjun realize how serious he’d been just a moment before, hard edged and angry. A smile flickered on his lips, hung at the corner of his mouth as he turned his face up to look at the sky above them.

            “What would you do,” he asked, “If nothing mattered?”

            “What?” Renjun asked, moving slightly closer to conserve body warmth. It was beginning to get uncomfortably cold, and Jeno functioned both as a good friend and as a human radiator.

            His mouth quirked up in a smile. “Like, if your parents didn’t give a fuck about what you did, and they were actually decent people willing to help you achieve your dreams, or some shit. And mine were, like, not—how they are.”

            Renjun thought, and then thought some more. “What would _you_ do?”

            Jeno grinned, all bright white teeth and childish glee. It clashed with the dark, rolling hills beside them, clashed with the weary, almost reticent quiet he’d affected recently. He looked almost hopeful. “That’s easy. I’d get Jisung, and the rest, and you, of course, and I’d get the hell out of here. Go to a big city, or something, or maybe just another sleepy town, as long as it wasn’t here. Get a good job, maybe take a couple classes, ask my parents to pay for my apartment for a little bit while I got used to everything.”

      He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, the constellations speckled the dark brown with silver and white. “It’s impossible, I know, but dreaming about it, here, it feels so real. So little like a wish, and so much more like a future. And, really, I don’t think I’m asking for much. Just a chance to breathe.” He glanced over, starlight flecked eyes catching his own. “Your turn.”

            Under the weight of that gaze, anything felt possible. Infinities spun and twisted and tangled in his chest, holding his heart tight. Renjun drew in a breath, and kept it there for as long as he could. Then he whispered it all, rushed and quiet like a confession, because it kind of was. “I’d go into art, at the university. And—maybe teach the kids dance, over at the academy. And, stay here, if you were staying here.” His ears burned, but he didn’t look over. Jeno couldn’t have caught it—he probably hadn’t. “And. That’s it, I think.” He laughed. “Even that sounds impossible, really.”

            Jeno didn’t say anything for a very long time, and finally, Renjun looked over, afraid he’d fallen asleep. A quiet breeze tousled his dark hair, brushed it away from his eyes. He raised a hand, as if meaning to touch him, then pressed it against his thigh, and said, “Maybe. But we all need something impossible to hold on to, I think. The world’s too dull to keep us going otherwise.”

            It was a nice sentiment, even nicer because it came from Jeno’s mouth. Renjun didn’t say this out loud, but it was too close for comfort. The other boy laughed, and rolled over, dragging himself up so his back was pressed against the side of the truck. “I should get you back. You’re half asleep.”         

            “Am not,” he muttered, but he could feel the truth of it. He groaned and pulled himself out of the truck. The grass was already damp with dew, gold and silver and white and black held in the palm of his hand. It was possible that he really did need a nap.

            The ride back was quiet enough. Renjun held his head back against the headrest, and listened to the thrum of the engine, Jeno’s quiet exhaling breaths, and the breeze rustling the hills outside. The faint glow of the truck and the moonlight provided the only light, and it cast Jeno in eerie contrast. Renjun blinked slowly, shuttering between a smiling Jeno conjured by his half awake consciousness, and this one. Jeno. Not Jeno. Jeno. Not Jeno.

            By the time he’d gotten to the three hundredth Not Jeno, they’d pulled up beside his house. His heart felt heavy in his chest. He didn’t want to go back inside, not alone, but Jeno had things to do and places to be, and his selfishness could only buy him so much time.

            But he still walked him to the door, still waited as Renjun stripped off his overcoat and hung it up in the closet and padded back to the door to wish him a safe trip home.

            “I’ll get going then,” Jeno said, voice barely above a whisper, and offered a small, bright smile. Renjun heaved a sigh, and waved goodbye, chest tight. You couldn’t ask someone to stay when they weren’t supposed to be beside you in the first place.

 

            …

 

             “Huang.”

            Renjun nearly screamed. The halls were already beginning to empty out—he had maybe half a minute before the second bell would ring, making him late for Lit. Again.

            He glanced warily around the hallway, but it was still empty. It was probably just sleep deprivation and stress. Hallucinations didn’t seem like such a faraway concept if they were related to Lee Jeno.

            The voice came again, pitched lower and painfully familiar. “Hey. Hey. Huang.”

            Renjun rubbed his eyes. He was already going to be late, there was no point in running now. “Hello?”

            A shadow slipped out from behind a row of lockers, coalescing into a lanky form. He offered Renjun a small smile and leaned back against the lockers. Renjun stared, and stared, and said, “Do you not have Gov right now?”

            “Don’t you have Lit?”

            He snorted. “And I’d be there, too, if it wasn’t for you and—” he waved a hand to indicate the other boy, “—Your tomfoolery.”

            “My tomfoolery?” he asked, lips pressed tightly together. He looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

            “Yes,” Renjun said stubbornly. “Why are you here?”

            Jeno grinned. “I was kind of hoping you’d ask that, actually.” He held out a hand, and Renjun raised an eyebrow at it. “Come with me.”

            He reluctantly took his hand, following him down the stairs and out into the parking lot. “Are you planning to show me a whole new world?”

            Jeno smiled again. He looked painfully tired, hair vaguely tangled and tousled even further by the wind, but there was something bright about his gaze, about the way he tipped his face up towards the sky. “Shining, shimmering, splendid.”

            “You’re a terrible singer.”

            “So I’ve been told,” he said, and glanced over. “How do you feel about the beach?”

            Renjun blinked at him. “I think that it’s very far away and we’re still full time high school students.”

            He shrugged. “Not that far away. Mark’s truck is pretty shit, but I think I can get us there before noon.”

            _“Why?”_ Renjun pinched the bridge of his nose. “I just—Why? Why would you do that for me?”

            Jeno laughed, scrutinizing Renjun for some sign of a joke, and laughing harder when he realized he was serious. He tugged on his hand twice, led him to the truck in the corner of the parking lot. His breath wavered in his chest, heart still for the first time.

            There was a sticker of a birthday cake on the back, and someone—he suspected Yukhei, from the bad hand writing—had written _Happy 18 th Birthday, Junie! _in thick black Sharpie. A bundle of balloons was tied around the back, and bobbed from side to side in the faint spring breeze.

            “We were meant to pick you up after school and hang out all together, at the diner or something,” Jeno whispered, voice warm against his ear. Renjun struggled not to flinch or melt into a puddle. “But I figured—why waste an entire day waiting?”

            “We wouldn’t be waiting,” he managed weakly. “We would be in class. Like we are supposed to be right now.”

            He waved a hand, dismissive. “Same difference. You coming?”

            Renjun considered the truck, cast in light pink light from the reflected balloons, and Jeno, warm and familiar and impossible. Without meeting his eyes, he nodded, and climbed into the passenger seat. His ears burned. _This is a bad idea,_ he thought, and the words sang through him, but he didn’t care in the slightest, couldn’t bring himself to care.

            Jeno pulled out of the parking lot. He was whistling that old song he liked, and it was barely a song at all, really, just a handful of notes held together and sculpted into something half melodic, but he seemed to enjoy it, so Renjun did too. He cocked his head, and held out a small carton of banana milk. The condensation wet his hands when he took it from him, and it was warm where Jeno had held it.  

            He poked the straw in and sipped meditatively as asphalt and concrete petered away to reveal the forests beyond. The late morning chill hung in the air, frost still coating the edges of the window.

            “You didn’t have to do this,” he muttered between sips of milk. Jeno smiled at him without looking at him, and fiddled with the dial on the radio.

            “Like you said,” he replied, finding a trashy pop station and sticking to it. “I don’t have to do anything. I want to do this. It’s a good enough excuse to skip out on school.”

            He frowned. “So this is just a way for you to get out of class?”    

            Jeno raised his eyebrows, turned his gaze back to the road. “What do you think?”

            What _did_ Renjun think? He thought it was impossible to read Jeno’s gaze these days, thought it was impossible to understand Jeno the way he once had—thought that maybe, all this time, he’d seen a faint shadow of the other boy and extrapolated his entire personality from it, rather inaccurately. He thought that maybe, despite all of this, he was still very badly in love with him, thought that dreaming about kissing him every other night was not the best or most efficient use of his time. But he knew none of this could be put into words, not the way he meant to say them, and so he just shook his head and looked out the other window.

            The trees stretched out for miles on either side, a thick band of dark green only interrupted by the bright blue sky above them. It was a thin, cloudless morning, and the sun rose slowly, lazily in the sky. Jeno tapped his nails against the dashboard to the beat of the songs on the radio, and Renjun let his eyes fall closed. He could fall asleep like this, he thought. He hadn’t slept for more than an hour on any one night for the past month, but the faint, tinny music and Jeno’s raspy whistling felt like a kind of lullaby.

            And he did. Jeno woke him up a couple miles from the ocean, and when he opened his eyes, he could hear the crash of waves against sand in the distance.

            “Sleeping Beauty’s finally up,” he teased, running his free hand through his already messy hair.

            “What time is it?” he muttered. His mouth felt like a forest of its own.

            “A little past noon,” Jeno said, turning off the radio. “We’re almost there.”

            He could see Jeno’s smile in his periphery, and even through his half asleep haze, knew he couldn’t handle it. So he turned to face the ocean, the rock of the mountains beside them jaggedly curving down to meet the sand. Pale blue water splashed innocuously against the dunes. The air hung heavy with saltwater and soil.

            Jeno pulled over slowly and got out. Renjun watched him walk around back to the trunk, then eased himself out of his seat. There was a worn guardrail that supported the platform, and he leaned against it and waited for Jeno to join him.

            When he did, he had a stained paper bag in one hand and car keys in the other. He slipped them into his pocket and then held up the bag in watered down triumph. “Lunch.”

            Renjun allowed himself a small grin. “Did you make that? My apologies to whoever was in the apartment with you.”

            He stuck out his tongue, a strangely childish gesture that fit him well. “For your information, I _helped._ But Donghyuck and Jaemin did most of the work. I put it in the bag, though. So that counts for something.”

            He shook his head, because there was nothing else to say except, maybe, a poorly timed declaration of love, and there’d be time enough for that later, when he got home and shut himself in his room and dreamt until his eyes were sore. Finally, he said, “It does.”

            Jeno beamed, and led him down the crags until stone wore away to desaturated golden sand. He paused at the bottom of the jagged rock, tugged his shoes off and held them under his free arm.

            They walked in silence, the sand soft and warm under their feet. Renjun wondered what the rest of them were doing right now. Probably staring at a white board, bored out of their minds. Probably texting under their desks, watching Netflix in between worksheets.

            The sea spray beat against his face. It was difficult to believe that this was real—difficult to believe that this wasn’t simply a dream flickering into life, a daydream tilted the wrong way. The sea was impossible, and he was not, and Jeno was some mix of both, and it was only him that convinced Renjun that this was real. There was something horribly genuine about the other boy that never came out quite right in dreams, too obviously  contrived to provide any kind of comfort in the early morning.

            And, somehow, he was eighteen. It was terrifying and wonderful, because the rest of his life was meant to begin the day after tomorrow, and he still had no idea what he was doing, still had no idea what he wanted to do. But there was a hint of freedom in the air, a loosening in his chest that spoke of an inexpressible hope. It was not so much that he knew everything about what laid in front of him as much as it was that, for the first time in his life, he held his fate in his own hands.

            “Renjun?” Jeno called. He was already at the waves, and the water wound itself around his feet amiably. He wiggled his toes and grinned down at the damp sand. “Are you coming or not?”

            They stood in the water for a few minutes—or maybe longer. Time slipped around them, as fluid as the water, and nothing about it felt real, and nothing about that felt important.

            After, they spread out the thin, patchwork blanket they’d borrowed from Jaemin and the birthday lunch. Renjun struggled not to show his joy, but it still leaked out, and Jeno picked at the food carelessly, keeping his eyes focused on his face. “You look like a kid in a candy shop.” 

            “Sorry.”

            “No, don’t.” Jeno clapped his hands together to dust them off, took a handful of sand and let it fall through his fingers before glancing back. “No, seriously, don’t be sorry. It’s cute. Are these your favorite foods?”

            Renjun ducked his head to hide the blush, and took another bite of his sandwich. “Yeah. I can’t believe Jaemin remembered all of this.”

            “I can,” he said, chewing thoughtfully on a grape. He was reclined on the sand, languid save for the anxious tapping of nail on skin, but he turned to look at him then. “He cares about you a lot. It shows.”

            “He hates you,” he blurted. He passed a hand over the back of his neck, and added, “Okay, he doesn’t _really_ hate you, it’s just—”

            “I know,” Jeno said, laughing. There was a bare hint of something sad and bitter in his voice, but he popped another grape in his mouth, and it disappeared. “Trust me, I know. He has good reason. But he still loves you.”

            He flushed even more. “I know. And—thank you. For this. All of it. I needed it.”

            Jeno stopped chewing, then, swallowed the rest of the grape and leaned back on his elbows. As per usual, he was inscrutable, but for once, he was searching for something unknown in Renjun’s eyes. He blew out an exhale, and finally said, “It’s your birthday. Someone had to do it.”

            Renjun frowned. “Can you just accept the ‘thank you’? It’s not like—It’s not like this would’ve felt the same if, like, I was out here with Ms. Lee instead.”

            Jeno stared at him for a few seconds, then threw his head back and laughed. It was annoying until it wasn’t, and then Renjun pressed his own laughter back and stared out at the sea to avoid looking at him.

            “Okay,” he managed, eyes bright with mirth. “Point taken. Do you want to go to the Spring Carnival with me?”

            “What?” Renjun asked. His head was spinning. Suddenly, the remains of the lunch did not look appetizing—the sea did not look calming. It looked angry and roiling and somewhat like it planned to ruin his life.

            Jeno cocked his head. “The Spring Carnival? I go every year with the guys, but Yukhei’s out of town, and Mark’s got work, and Donghyuck’s babysitting his little cousin, and Jisung says he doesn’t want to go with me? ‘Cause he’s going with someone else? Which is kinda depressing, if you think about it. My baby brother has more game than me. Anyway, I figured you’d be free anyway, since it’s after ten, and all your nerd activities are done by then.”

            Renjun’s mind was _still_ spinning, but it was slowing, somehow, and his stomach felt queasy from the ride. He felt a little unsettled, a little far from control. It was good that he wasn’t asking him out—it was good news, he knew, but there was still a faint stab of rejection at the fact that he was _literally_ Jeno’s last resort, his back up before staying home and watching Netflix. And then, of course, there was always the fact that he maybe, probably, couldn’t make it anyway. Lamely, he said, “I have homework.”

            Jeno squinted at him. “It’s a month from now. They haven’t even announced the exact date, just the week of.”

            He backtracked, but the urgency of it rendered it more a verbal crabwalk. “I, uh, usually have homework. Every night. It’s a daily thing. I’ll _probably_ have homework. You know my classes.”

            Jeno made a sound somewhere between a groan and a grunt and turned over so the sand obscured his expression. If Renjun had to guess, he’d assume he was stewing, but it was impossible to know. Finally, he pulled himself up with one arm, a thin grin shadowing his features. “If you don’t, then. Come with me?”

            Renjun swallowed. He’d been backed into a wall. There was no way out of this situation that didn’t require a yes, a plain, harsh—frankly rude— _no,_ or an excuse patched together with duct tape and cheap requests for pity. Faintly, he said, “I guess that sounds nice.”

            The grin widened. “Well, that’s settled. We should get back. They’ve planned a party and everything. It’d be shitty to be late.”

            And so they cleaned it all up, and drove back in near silence, except the wind still whistled through the trees, and Jeno still whistled his terrible music with his terrible voice. But it felt different, felt changeable and mutable, and when they pulled up in front of Renjun’s house—streamers already falling from the oak trees—he smiled.

            “What’s that for?” Jeno asked. He ran his hands over the car around him—picking up stray trash, the now obliterated picnic bag, his half empty backpack—and paused only to kill the engine. The steady thrum petered out, and Renjun felt unmoored.

            “Nothing,” he said, and from here, he could see everyone already inside. Yukhei was visible at the window, hanging up cut paper hearts, and behind him, Chenle was fiddling with the pillows. He pressed his lips together, but the smile refused to fade. “It’s nothing.”

 

            …

 

            Jeno called him on a Friday night, seconds before he’d gotten up to begin a painting of the other boy. He didn’t have a reference, but if he closed his eyes, he could still see him on his birthday, sand falling in his hair and a warm grin hanging loosely on his lips.

            He reached around his covers, and put it on speaker. “What’s up?”

            Silence, and then, “Do you know how to tie a tie?”

            Renjun did know how to tie a tie. You didn’t survive for very long in the Huang family—even when you were an accident—if you didn’t know how to tie a tie. He’d botched the first couple dozen tries, but you know. He managed to get the hang of it around nine years old.

            But explaining this would probably elicit another muttered promise of revenge on Renjun’s parents, and it was close enough to the end of the month that the mere mention of them made him antsy. So he just said, “Yeah. Why?”

            Jeno exhaled, and the sound crackled over the speaker. “Donghyuck’s busy with something, so Mark’s taking _me_ as his plus one to this—to this wedding. I think it’s his cousin’s, or his brother’s. Anyway, he kept bugging me, because apparently his family is unbearable, and he needs moral support. But the thing is—” he shifted the phone, and fabric rustled in the background. “He left to help set up, like, a couple hours ago, and I have no fucking idea how to tie this thing? And I can’t find any good videos, and I’m losing my fucking mind. Can you, like, walk me through it? Slowly, though. I’m not a genius.”

            Renjun turned over on the bed, so his mouth was closer to the receiver. _Come over,_ he thought, and then there was a muffled exclamation on the other side, and he realized he had said it out loud. Eighteen was not doing good things for his self control.

            “I, uh,” Jeno said. “Yes. Okay. I will be over.”

            And then he hung up, and left Renjun to reconsider his life choices. By the time he’d arrived, he’d come to the conclusion that, really, it was his parents’ fault. For one, they shouldn’t have had him. Also, they shouldn’t have moved here, and left him to the mercy of Jaemin, who was a bad influence, and Jeno, who was an even worse influence. And then he padded downstairs to answer the door and face the fruits of his own mistakes.

            “Hey,” he managed.

            Jeno did not say anything back. His eyes were fixed on a length of fabric wrapped around his neck, and the fingers of one hand were tangled in it. The other hand was stuffed in his back pocket. He was leaned precariously against the doorjamb. Renjun took pains to avoid looking at the suit. Or Jeno. Or Jeno, in the suit.

            He tugged him in with both arms, and disentangled his fingers from the tie. Jeno looked up, finally processing his presence. There was something bright and half awake in his eyes, a lost, worn down kind of yearning. Then it disappeared, and a dry, self deprecating humor replaced it. “You have to help me with this.”

            “I’m trying,” he muttered. The tie was in terrible condition. There were knots inside knots, located within more knots. It felt like a pretty good metaphor for his stomach.

            Jeno coughed once, and Renjun ignored it. There were cough drops on the coffee table, and Jeno knew that. Then he coughed again, and he looked up, half irritated and half concerned. “Should you really be going to a wedding if you have a cold?”

            He pressed his mouth tight. There was a faint blush on the other boy’s cheeks, like embarrassment, if Jeno was even capable of being embarrassed. He said, “I…”

            Renjun waited a few moments, then prompted, “You…?”

            Jeno ducked his head, and took a seat on the couch, turning his head so Renjun couldn’t fully parse his expression. He shifted to take him in, and continued untangling the tie with his free hand. He mumbled something unintelligible, and turned away again, brushing away imaginary lint on his suit.

            “What?” he asked, swearing under his breath as he undid one of the largest knots. “Jeno, I can’t hear you.”

            He heaved a sigh. “I can’t dance.”

            Renjun stilled and looked down at him, but from the misery scrawled across his face, it was sadly apparent that he wasn’t lying. He crossed his arms. “Do you _have_ to dance at the wedding? Maybe you can just stand in the corner and eat from the mini food trays.”

            He hadn’t previously thought it possible, but Jeno’s expression contorted further. His brows drew together. If he hadn’t known better, he would’ve assumed the other boy was constipated. “Mark said that—he knows the DJ and he’s going to make everyone dance. Like, there’s this one song where all the, uh, couples go out on the floor, and obviously, there’s a bunch of, um, people who are single at these things. So, instead of, like, just being decent people, his family decided to just pair people off if that happens. Which isn’t—I don’t _want_ it to happen, and I think it’s a shitty thing for them to do, even though I’m thankful that I’m being warned in advance, but like. I want to be prepared. Which I’m not. I’m not prepared, right now.”

            As his friend, who happened to be a dancer, he knew, objectively, that it wouldn’t be impossible to teach Jeno how to dance. As a “friend” with a disgustingly huge crush, he really, really didn’t want him to dance with anyone else.

            Sometimes, he really hated friendship.

            He unwound the tie, finally, and let it hang limply in his hands. It fell from his fingers, and Jeno reached forward to catch it. He held it tight, but didn’t look up.

            “I can try,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t promise you’ll learn anything.”

            Jeno choked out a laugh, high and bitter and bright. “I can’t promise that either.”

            He exhaled shakily, and leaned back against the loveseat. “Okay. Do you have music?”

            He shook his head. “Not unless you count Yukhei’s shitty EDM. I, uh, have a couple of pop songs?”

            Renjun shrugged, heart thudding against his chest. _This is a dream,_ he thought, and still, time went on. It was a dream, and it was real, and he knew they were both true, and wished neither were. “We’ll make do.”

            A smile, or what passed for one, flickered on Jeno’s face, a foreign kind of warmth lighting up the cold angles of his features. “I’m trusting you.”

            And he was. He trusted Renjun, and it was impossible, in that moment, to not see the depth of that trust, and the fierceness of it. It was heartening, and it was terrifying, and Renjun swallowed hard, because the only other viable option was locking himself in his room and not coming out for weeks.

            “Thanks,” he mumbled, and then cursed himself for it— _Thanks?—_ and then led him across the house and towards the gardens, the gardens that smelled of lavender when they should’ve smelled of hydrangeas, because they were the only free space in the entire house. They _could_ dance in the three square feet offered by the kitchen, or the bathroom, but he really doubted Jeno wanted to.

            Renjun could see it all happen seconds before it really did, like this was a movie, and he was watching from far, far away, watching from within the safety of a dream. They walked and danced and loved and dreamt as if frozen in amber, movements cut through something sweet and long lost and meant to be lost. It had the ring of a time capsule, of a treasured memory held in soft, unmarked hands before it was buried somewhere where the sunlight could never reach it again.

            He remembered it perfectly, because when something truly matters, it stays. Jeno put on some shitty Top 40s song, and they walked out into the middle of the garden and listened to the beginning of it—to the throbbing bass, and the woman’s voice, pitched too high to be comfortable for her or for them. Jeno made a bad joke about it, and Renjun laughed, and then the song changed, and still they waited.

            And then a song came on, and that, only that, evaded him. But it didn’t matter in the slightest, so maybe that made sense. The song came on, and Jeno took a step forward, and Renjun willed himself not to take a step back. His movements were painfully hesitant, as if he didn’t know how to touch him, as if he didn’t know whether he was allowed to. Renjun wanted to reach out and bring him closer, and then realized that for the first time, and maybe the last, he was allowed to.

            So he drew up a hand and caught Jeno’s wrist, and the other boy stilled momentarily in his half hearted dance away and towards Renjun. His pulse roared in his ears. _Was he doing this?_ He was, he’d started doing it, and now Jeno was _staring at him,_ and so obviously he had to finish doing it. He swallowed his anxiety and tugged him closer, looping his hands around the other boy’s neck before letting them fall back to his side.

            “Um,” he murmured, so quietly that Jeno had to lean in to hear him properly. Which, of course, did even worse things to his heart rate. “Usually, the guy leads, which, uh, would be you, since you’re taller.”

            “That’s horribly sexist.”

            He managed a small smile. “It is. But, um, since you don’t know how to dance, just… follow my lead?”

            Jeno cocked his head, impossibly warm. “I’m already great with that.”

            Renjun blushed a deeper shade of red, which seemed nearly impossible until it happened, since, even in the faint sunlight, he was already plowing past crimson.

            Somehow, the song was still going. Perhaps that was how it was with important moments—time bent around them, stretched them out and pulled them inward and shaped them so that in memory, they were beautiful and ageless.

            Renjun put his hands on Jeno’s waist and shoulder, and Jeno hesitated before letting his arms hang on Renjun’s shoulders. Jeno’s hands were gentle on his skin, barely touching him at all. The sides of his elbows brushed against his bared shoulders, his fingers soft against the nape of his neck. It was strange and quixotic and when the chorus rang out, harsh and dissonant and perfect, they began to sway. It was not a waltz, not even close to it, not anything that Renjun had set out to teach him. But they were moving, and the music was soft and abrasive in the air, and that was enough.

            It was a terrible lesson, and Renjun wasn’t sure if he regretted that. He’d danced with Jeno, and now he was meant to dance with someone else, but that other person wouldn’t have _this,_ wouldn’t have worn fingertips and a faint odor of lavender and a fainter one of hydrangeas and tinny music changing the orange gold dusk into something nascent and lasting.

            They stilled, finally, and they did not say anything, and it felt right somehow. Renjun didn’t know if he’d be able to speak, even if he tried, so he didn’t. He reached out to the side, pulled the tie off the stone fixture where he’d left it, and reached forward. Jeno was still, eyes shuttered shut and chest faintly heaving. He opened them when he looped the tie around his neck, watched him knot it without saying anything, without breathing. There was a hint of something fond and inexplicable in that gaze, and Renjun, who knew everything of Jeno, or who wanted to, should’ve been able to take it apart. But he couldn’t, could only glance up and catch his gaze before it faded. The song changed, and still they stood there, still they waited, but now, it was no longer apparent what they were waiting for.

            He finished tying the tie, and blew out a long exhale. He could feel Jeno’s breath on his hair—he was so close that if he took another step, if Jeno bent down just a little, they could—he took another deep breath. He was being greedy with his dreams, mixing up what he needed and what he wanted and what he simply enjoyed thinking of.

            They bent together, and for a moment, for just a moment, it was a possibility. They were a dream come to life; fragile, strained youth tangled between two still heartbeats.

            And then they stepped apart, and Jeno turned to check his phone, and Renjun tried to remember how to breathe. It came to him in chunks and gasps, whispers of a way of life that felt wholly inadequate when held in comparison to _this._

“It’s almost six,” Jeno said.

            Renjun exhaled. It felt like an admission, like a confession. “Okay.”

            His gaze was unreadable, even as he brought a hand up to rest on Renjun’s shoulder. Even as he smiled, faded and bright and familiar. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

            “Okay,” he said softly. It was all he could do not to tell him to stay, all he could do not to tug on his wrist and ask him to dance one more song.

            He walked him back to the front door. Jeno fiddled with his tie on the way there, pointedly not looking at him. Renjun counted planks of wood the way he had once counted stars in the sky, and held the door open for him.

            “Good luck,” he said, and leaned over to brush a piece of lint off of the tie. “I hope—I hope you don’t embarrass yourself.”

            Jeno gave a small, toothy grin. “I hope so too.”

            Renjun watched him walk back to the truck. Jeno raised a hand in farewell, and then shut the car door behind him. He waited for the squeal of tires to fade. He closed the front door behind him, and walked to his room. He found a handful of clean brushes, and placed a canvas on his easel. He bent down and pulled out two tubes of paint—red and blue—and held them in his hand, thoughtful.

            Then he began to paint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope u liked it <3 once again, i am TERRIBLE abt responding to ccs and comments, but i see EVERY SINGLE ONE and get all gooey inside abt them. if u wanna leave one, i would very much enjoy that <3 <3 <3 
> 
> find me on twt @ [hwanguit](https://twitter.com/hwanguit) or on cc @ [sarchengseys](https://curiouscat.me/sarchengsey) !


	8. take this sinking boat and point it home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he looked up at Renjun, his eyes were glassy. Softly, he said, “I don’t know how to be okay with this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow it has been a while. not gna give my sorry for the 7 month hiatus spiel (sorry for the 7 month hiatus) but i am V sorry even tho my crippling writers block meant i was pretty much useless w a word doc. ANYWAY !! im here now and i bear presents and angst !!! also kind of ironic that the april chapter is actually being posted in april. haha
> 
> some things <3  
> \- this is probably the heaviest chapter so far !! there'll be a tldr at the bottom, so if u think u cant handle it, stop reading @ "time warped around moments" tw for referenced abuse and violence  
> \- chapter [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/varsh-bear/playlist/6CcZCGSpJHqw2vHCdKS8L9?si=QLlsEWuETxeFxSXa1TkMwg)  
> \- chapter title from falling slowly from once (which is also the song sung in this chapter ! and jenos fave song !! its nvr said explicitly tho so just think of whatever song u want)  
> \- return of the christmas party outfit !!! it's described in a little detail in this chapter but [here](<a%20href=) is renjun's pinterest board which i used for inspo if u want specifics .. he said fuck gender roles  
> \- shoutout to everyone who helped me keep going and write this (it was never ever going to be discontinued but seeing comments/messages + the unending support of the mg stan trio was. heartening 2 say the least)

            Renjun weighed the vase in his hand and let his eyes fall closed. He imagined throwing it against the opposite wall, imagined the crack of the shards and the way the dust and glass would collect at the bottom. He tightened his hold on it—the idea of throwing it was too tempting, and now, he couldn’t think of a single good reason not to.

            It wasn’t really that he’d expected anything. He’d trained himself not to, but humans were naturally hopeful, and that kind of hope lingered long after everything else passed. It bit into red, raw skin and pulled.

            He was disappointed, but more than that, he was terrified, filled with a base, puerile fear that he thought he’d left behind. He bit back a faint laugh, suddenly bitter. He was eighteen, and he was throwing a tantrum because he was afraid of being alone. There was something terribly ironic about that, but the humor hadn’t yet revealed itself.

            He drew in a breath and blew it out. They weren’t even being unreasonable about it—they’d all known he’d have to leave, and he had time. His grandmother had bought him that, at the very least. Time, and a little money, and a handful of excuses rotted away at the edges.

            The clink of glasses drifted upstairs, and Renjun replaced the vase on the desk beside him. They’d fly out tomorrow, at the very latest. He wandered in and out of their life, an acquaintance that happened to share their DNA. It shouldn’t have discomfited him, and he shouldn’t have been disappointed, and he shouldn’t have been surprised. There was no one to blame for his unreasonable hopes but himself, and maybe Jeno.

            Renjun tilted his head back against the wall. _This is a bad idea,_ he thought, even as he pulled his phone out from under the covers.

            Jeno answered on the first ring, voice thick with fatigue. “Hello?”

            He ran an uncertain hand through his hair and stared at the broken clock on his dresser like it’d make all his decisions for him. Finally, he said, “Take me out.”       

            There was a brief pause, and then the dial tone. An indeterminable amount of time passed—he heard glass shattering in his head, over and over and over, and downstairs, the television blared in the living room. He swung back and forth between anger and anxiety, tethered only by the hope that Jeno would come take him away. But there was so little payoff to painstakingly analyzing every action and every event. It was too easy to paint a picture that would never come to life, to pin hopes on half formed figures that fell to dust in the next second.

              The phone buzzed, and pent up anger carried him down the stairs and out the door. Halfway to the living room, he nearly stopped to consider the possibility that the buzz hadn’t been Jeno—that he was going to open the door to another kind of emptiness. But somewhere along the way, he’d found that he didn’t care either way. Jaemin’s place was only a mile away, and there were so many different ways to leave when you didn’t care where you were leaving _to._

It was Jeno. The peeling paint of the pickup caught the wan moonlight, and the shadows cut him up into indiscernible pieces. Renjun slowed to a stop, suddenly apprehensive. His phone buzzed again, and he ignored it.

            He marched across the lawn and tapped on the scratched glass of the window. Jeno glanced over and smiled. Renjun was suddenly unable to think of anything but that smile, unable to think of anything but how unknowable it was.

            _It’s unlocked,_ Jeno mouthed. Renjun’s ears burned. He pulled the car door open and took a seat. Jeno didn’t say anything, but unsaid, unknown, words hung in the air. He was watching him, even now, and Renjun tried desperately to work out the nuances of whether his gaze was wary or pitying or bemused without actually seeing it.

            He turned to face him suddenly. Jeno blinked, but said nothing, just kept watching him. Renjun swallowed hard. “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

            The corner of his mouth quirked up in something that wasn’t quite a smile but held too much warmth to be anything else. “I wasn’t going to ask.”

            He exhaled in relief and turned to stare out the window, at the faded streamers from his party the week before. After a few more moments of silence, Jeno started the engine, a low, inconstant thrum that loosened the tension in his chest.

            Renjun leaned his cheek against the cold glass of the window and watched the world fall asleep outside. Lights flickered and disappeared in bedroom windows, and suburbia shut its eyes. Renjun felt infinitely far away from it all, from that simple, routine solidity. It had never been his to hold, and there was nothing substantial enough about that for him to be angry about, but he felt he was owed his dreams, owed a small measure of bitterness.

            He turned, slightly, so he could watch Jeno instead. His eyes flicked over and caught his, and his mouth did something abstruse and frustrating, but he said nothing. It was the sort of thing that would fade from his memory the next morning and reappear months later, a shadow of emotion held up to the moonlight.

            Renjun watched him drive and thought about how silly their relationship was. How silly all of this was. He was upset about something that he’d spent months—years—preparing for in the passenger seat of an ancient death vehicle, and he was in love with someone who he’d never see again in a few months, someone who he’d never fall out of love with. It was ridiculous, and if he could’ve mustered the energy to laugh, he would’ve. As it was, he just watched him drive, waited for the silence to become something louder than his fear. “I have until graduation. They were really close to just letting me go now, but my grandma convinced them otherwise. Since it’s only a few more months.”

            He didn’t say anything at first, just stared out at the night and quietly slid onto a country road Renjun hadn’t previously known existed. There was something deliberately contrived in his voice when he spoke, a constructed distance that gave away more than it held back. “Do you have everything you’ll need?”

            _Yes,_ he thought, because his overpreparation was the one constant in all this. But he blew out a long breath and said, “No.”

            The truck’s engine stuttered briefly as they climbed up the hills. Carefully, Jeno said, “Is it something I can help with?”

            Jeno could not lend him courage, could not lend him his heart. It was his cowardice that kept him back, a juvenile fear that held him stagnant and furious. The rest of his emotions had already retreated into a kind of sleep soft reticence, but that serrated, bright righteous fury was still, impossibly, awake. But it wasn’t something he could put into words—things like this never were.  

            He turned his head so that he was facing Jeno, his left cheek pressed against the worn leather. His profile was sharp and elegant against the lights dotting the town below them, and the faint moonlight cast half of his face in a watery blue light and the other half in shadow. The tips of his ears were red, knuckles white on the steering wheel, and it felt significant somehow. Renjun was no longer sure whether the strange feeling of uncertainty that rolled under them as they drove to the peak was related to anger or to something right under his nose, unnoticeable up until the moment it was impossible to ignore any longer.

            “I wish,” he whispered, half an accident and half a plea. Jeno darted his eyes over in an amused, thoughtful glance and continued up the hills and towards the peak. Renjun watched the line of his mouth tighten for a few moments more, his own personal torture, before rolling over and staring at the shadowed trees rushing by. “Where are you taking me?”

            He gave a small laugh but didn’t answer, and for the first time, Renjun regretted their little routine, because it was a genuine question. He batted his free hand lazily at the radio, and his seatbelt fought him valiantly on the way there. The faint drone of trashy old pop music filled the truck.

            Jeno grinned at the sound, and Renjun memorized it, drew his eyes across the planes of his face and the curve of his mouth and the way his hair was mussed from fatigue and work, and he was so, _so_ fucked.

            “We’re almost there,” he said, and the words were still shaped like his smile. Renjun said nothing, just closed his eyes and waited.

            At the peak, he pulled over. Up here, the air was silent and heavy with the night. Jeno tugged him out and towards the lookout, marked with dilapidated signs that’d likely last seen human contact in the 70s. The railing was rusted, and yet Jeno leaned over cavalierly. His gaze was harsh but alive, and Renjun shrunk back from it out of pure self preservation.

            “Scream,” Jeno said, one elbow balanced on the railing and his other hand still held tight around Renjun’s.

            “What?” he asked slowly.

            “Scream,” he repeated, and a crooked smile hung loosely on his lips. “It’ll help. You know you want to.”

            Renjun kept his eyes on the moon. “I really don’t. Aren’t we going to get caught?”

            He could feel him smiling, but didn’t look over. “Probably not. Just try it once, for me. Let loose a little.”

            “’Probably’ isn’t very reassuring,” he murmured.

            Jeno squeezed his hand, just once. His heartbeat was nothing but dissonance. “Then trust me.”

            Renjun looked over, and the other boy looked back, and there was something significant in this too, but Renjun had never been good at untangling these things, when they really mattered. It was just another shortcoming on a growing list, or maybe it had always been this long—maybe he had only just noticed the ones tacked on at the end, one after another with increasing urgency. But he trusted Jeno, and that came with a twinge of its own, a lingering apprehension. He swallowed it and screamed instead.

            Jeno laughed at that, and the sound was nearly swallowed up by the silence of the night around them and the vestiges of Renjun’s broken scream, a simple _fuck you_ to fate. But it rang out, hung in the air longer than Renjun’s voice did, and settled in between his ribs, jagged and beautiful.

            He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Fuck your parents!” and Renjun echoed it, hysteric.

            They went back and forth— _fuck school, fuck life, fuck everything—_ until Jeno’s voice broke, and his scream petered out into a rasping laugh. It was as lovely as anything else Renjun had heard from him, and he held the remnants of it tight. _You’re ridiculous,_ he thought, but he couldn’t muster up any more self deprecation than was strictly necessary in the face of _this,_ of _him._ There was so much more to focus on.

            Jeno leaned across the railing again, and he was still holding Renjun’s hand, impossibly, and that tugged him closer, so that their elbows were pressed against each other. Renjun was breathless when he spoke, the words rushed and warm. “Thank you.”

            He hummed, so close that Renjun could smell peppermint. “Nothing to thank me for.”

            And he was wrong, but some things weren’t for him to say, even with the lateness of the night wearing away at his self-control. Renjun was threadbare and held together by careful decisions, by fears older than his first memories. The words bloomed on his lips and died there, and Jeno tilted his face up to the dark sky and watched the moon with a peculiar kind of wanderlust, a hopeless kind of love that Renjun felt every time he looked at him.

            “We should get back,” Jeno said, glancing back over at him. His eyes glinted with a wry, self-deprecating amusement. “We have school tomorrow. Wouldn’t want to be a bad influence.”

            Renjun nodded slowly, swallowing a response in favor of tugging his hand out of Jeno’s and starting back towards the truck.

            The ride back was quiet, just Jeno’s quiet breaths and the sound of the tangled, barbed knot in Renjun’s chest unwinding. It all seemed so far away now—whatever the fuck they were doing, whatever the fuck he was going to have to do after moving out. The clean disinterest he’d have to meet when he got home and the fatigue he’d have to push away tomorrow morning. He felt distant from everything. Nearly everything.

            Jeno was different when he wasn’t trying so hard to appear Jeno-like. His gaze was hard and weary on the road, and Renjun thought about how he was always just a little strained these days. But he was still beautiful, if a little harsher, a little sadder. A little more beautiful because of it, and that was something else he could never say, even if the other boy deserved to hear it.

            He looked over, and Renjun looked away, and suburbia was slightly less interesting when it was already asleep. The moonlight turned the asphalt to something fluid and unknowable and Renjun tasted three words on his tongue over and over, and let them burn through what remained and didn’t look back over, couldn’t.

            Jeno slowed to a stop outside his house. The windows were all already dark, except his, only his. It was a lonely house, for all of its grandeur, and he should’ve been happy to leave it, and he _was._ He _was,_ but he had never known anything but lonely homes, and somewhere along the way he’d learned to love them.

            A hand came to rest on his arm, where it curled tight around the armrest. Renjun inhaled as quietly as he could, and looked over.

            Jeno’s gaze didn’t waver, tired and warm, and Renjun wanted to kiss him so badly he nearly couldn’t bear it. He kept himself still with the remnants of his self control, and even that was quickly unraveling, leaving him lost and reckless.

            _I think I’m in love with you,_ he thought, remembered, and his lips parted as if to say it. Jeno tilted his head in a question, but it was so late that it was already morning, and Renjun couldn’t do this to him. He deserved something more than a late night confession from _him,_ of all people. And truthfully, Renjun didn’t think he could take rejection now, worn down and undone.

            He exhaled, and it held every word that he’d pressed back. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

            Something imperceptible shifted in Jeno’s expression, and then it was gone. Softly, he said, “See you.”

            Even after he left, Renjun stayed at his window and watched the asphalt below. And, though he’d made sure to turn the light off, he didn’t sleep.

 

…

 

            “Come over after work.” Renjun sandwiched his phone between his phone and ear and ran his hands over his backpack, tried to remember if he had everything. He was _always_ losing shit in Women’s Studies, which made _no_ sense, considering how he barely ever took anything out. He glanced balefully over at the lost and found bin near the office and continued, “That is, if you’re not busy. I need someone to practice my presentation on.”

            “That sounds like a you problem,” Jeno replied, voice crackly over the phone. “What’s in it for me?”

            Renjun considered the question and hummed. “Gummy bears. Do you want anything from the diner?”

            “Yeah, just the usual—” The audio cut off, quickly replaced by a more distant, “Ma’am, those aren’t for sale—Ma’am, please—”

            Renjun hung up and glanced at the clock. The student council meeting had run a little late, but it was to be expected. It wasn’t Daehwi’s _fault_ that _someone_ was embezzling large amounts of money from the student body funds, but it was still a pain in the ass to deal with.

            By the time he got to the diner, it was already busy, or as busy as it ever got, half the tables occupied and a haze of warmth pulling away at the lingering cold from outside.

            Sicheng was leaned over the counter, earbuds in and engrossed in a stack of papers that were not written in any human language. Renjun loitered by the counter, unsure of whether to disturb him. After a few minutes, Jungwoo came out with a steaming tray and noticed him. He ducked behind the counter and pulled out Sicheng’s earbuds, in quick succession, before patting Renjun on the back. “He doesn’t respond to anything under ninety decibels, so you gotta—” he mimicked a yanking motion and grinned before setting off again.

            Sicheng’s expression was equal parts murderous rage and fatigue, but it softened when he saw Renjun. His mouth quirked to the side. “The usual?”

            It was a little disorienting that he and Jeno had a ‘usual’—that this was something they did, something they could do. He shrugged, and nodded towards the papers. “For school?”

            He nodded tiredly. “Math. It’s _horrible_ , and makes _no_ sense—”

            Jungwoo squeezed his shoulder on his way back in. “At least you have a pretty face!”

            Sicheng glanced back with a truly terrifying glare before flicking his gaze down to his notes and scowling. He held his discarded earbuds in one hand and called back, “Renjun and Jeno’s usual!” He turned back to Renjun and frowned, but his eyes were bright. “Where is he, anyway? Is he just making you go get shit for him?  I _knew_ he would be a terrible boyfriend.”

            Renjun blinked at him. “What?”

            Sicheng stared back, wavering slightly, before coloring. It was the first time Renjun had ever seen him embarrassed. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry, I’m a little tired.”

            He blinked again, and wondered how angry Jeno would be if he just came back without food. Probably not very angry—Renjun suspected he considered gummy bears a reasonable dinner. He cleared his throat. “We’re not dating.” _Like it had to be said._

“Yes,” Sicheng said, rubbing his eyes. “Yeah, I was just—speaking in the hypothetical, of course. He _will_ be a terrible boyfriend. Don’t mind me, I called a tortoise a living bowl this morning.”

            That helped, but only a little. He had thought they were _dating._ Renjun’s head was throbbing.

            Jaehyun poked his head out the door, paper bag in hand. Splotches of grease spread across it, widening with every second. Sicheng stared at it, uncomprehending, and then handed it to Renjun, who took a few more seconds to stare at it uncomprehendingly before pulling out his wallet.

            He paid mechanically, and walked home with the same blank expression on his face. It was less that it was a surprise and more that it _wasn’t._ When had they started _this,_ and when had _this_ become something so easily comparable to _romance,_ and _when_ —

            “Hey,” Jeno said, leaned against the front door. His gaze was glued to his phone, but at the sound of the footsteps on the porch, he looked up. “You okay?”

            “Why wouldn’t I be?” He sounded like the voice from the Pacer test.

            Jeno gave him a strange look, but didn’t say anything else, just took the greasy bag from him and ducked into the house. “Just—” he wiped his hands on his jeans and pulled his work vest over his head. His shirt rode up a little, and Renjun shut the door behind him a little too hard. “You seem a bit distracted.”

            “I’m fine,” he muttered, and Jeno shrugged, and they forgot about it. Like they seemed to forget about everything, like they seemed to _ignore_ everything, except Renjun couldn’t forget. He couldn’t ignore it, and he spent the entire night watching Jeno go cross-eyed trying to catch gummy bears in his mouth. He was going to fail his presentation tomorrow, but he met the realization with a warm, tired kind of resignation.

            Jeno glanced at the clock at a quarter to ten, frowned and reluctantly pulled himself up. “I gotta go. Work.”

            Renjun swallowed what had become a familiar distaste and smiled instead. “You’re going to overwork yourself one of these days.”

            He stuck his tongue out and grinned, and if Renjun hadn’t known better, he would’ve called it fond. “You’d never let me.”

            _I wouldn’t,_ he thought, and that was the scariest thought of all.

 

…

 

            Renjun had thought that nothing about Jeno could surprise him anymore—that they’d entered some strange, fluid strange of something-ship where he looked on with a mixture of awe and fondness, nothing more. But he hadn’t mentally prepared himself for the guitar.

            “Jisung brought it over the other day,” Jeno said, gingerly lifting the case onto the sofa. Nobody else was home—it had been empty when he had arrived, and yet it held the lived in air that homes with so much love tended to exude. Renjun was needlessly anxious—any moment now, Donghyuck would walk in, or Mark, or Jaemin, and—

            _What?_ he thought. _And what?_

            Renjun wanted to keep this forever, but dreams ended. And he knew that, knew they could only dance around in the dark for so long, but nights lasted longer in the silence.

            “I haven’t played in months,” Jeno continued, and Renjun flicked his gaze up, watched him finger the wood with a nostalgic kind of affection. He looked up and at Renjun, and for a moment, that love lingered. It was almost unbearable.

            “Play something for me,” Renjun said, and Jeno blinked at him. He closed his eyes and reconsidered the repercussions of immediately moving out of the county. “That was—I didn’t mean—”

            “What a coincidence,” Jeno cut in, grinning. It was the sort of grin he didn’t give out a lot these days, bright white teeth and a hint of mischief. Renjun was so fucking _gone._ “I actually kinda wanted to show you something.”

            Renjun smiled weakly and leaned back on his hands. The other boy folded his legs and shifted the guitar in his hands.

            At first, he didn’t recognize the song. It was no reflection on Jeno’s humming abilities—even though the other boy couldn’t sing to save his life. It was just that he played with a careful sort of love, a tenderness that didn’t come across as easily in recordings, or quiet, breathless renditions.

            By the time he did recognize it, he was already singing along, a handful of words bound together by the lilting melody. Renjun hadn’t sung in so long, not since he and Jaemin had broken his cousin’s karaoke machine, and his voice was hoarse with disuse. It was so clearly not enough, but he couldn’t help but ache with _want._ To stay, to hold this, to have this again. He wasn’t sure which one, and he wasn’t sure that it mattered anymore.

            Jeno did not look up—he held himself completely still, his fingers resting on the strings. His chest was heaving, faintly. Renjun exhaled, a formal end to the song. He felt distant, removed from everything that he’d known and hated and thought unequivocal.

            At the sound, the other boy looked up, and Renjun held his gaze. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, just that he was looking for _something._ Jeno tilted his head, and there were three words there in his expression, something unknown and significant translated cleanly into an emotion that had burned through Renjun’s heart for nearly four years.

            It wasn’t surprising, and that was the only surprising thing about it. It was a realization that had haunted him for weeks, lingered without real form.

            He opened his mouth to speak, but there was nothing to say. Luckily, he didn’t have to. Jeno cut his eyes away, leaned back against the couch and smiled. Renjun didn’t try to memorize it, didn’t try to hold it tight. He was no longer afraid of losing it, and that seemed like something he ought to be afraid of.

            “You never told me you could sing,” he said softly.

            Renjun curled his fingers into the gaps between the couch cushions and forced his voice into something that resembled neutrality. “It never came up.”

            Jeno didn’t say anything for a moment, then put his hand on Renjun’s. “You have a nice voice.”

            Love was not something easily reciprocated. Oceans did not love sand, and kings did not love crowns, and knights did not love swords, but they were none of those things. If Renjun reached out, he would touch skin, and underneath, there would be a beating heart.

            He moved his hand so that he could interlace his fingers with Jeno’s and squeezed, just once. “Thanks.”

 

…

 

            Renjun tried not to think about it for a while, but it found a way to seep through the cracks of his practiced ignorance. It was worse at night—the house was harder to deal with now that he was living on a countdown, and every moment of silence was just long enough for him to overthink it all.

            He told Jaemin on Saturday, when Jeno was at work. That was strange, too, the way that Jeno had worked his way into his life. It felt natural to tell time by the demarcations of the other boy’s schedule— _thirty minutes till he’s back from the diner, five minutes until classes end—_

“I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to pick the eggshells out _before_ you whisk it,” Jaemin said wryly, fiddling with a switch on the stove. A shriek came from the living room—he threw a look that was equal parts horror and resignation over his shoulder before returning to Renjun. “Have you been sleeping?”

            Not enough, probably. Renjun frowned at the eggshells as he picked them out, wiping his fingers on the edge of the bowl. “I think I’m in love with Jeno.”

            Jaemin snorted. “No shit?”

            Renjun bit through his lip, tasted iron on his tongue and swallowed it. He wiped his fingers on his jeans and picked up the whisk. “And I think he’s in love with me too.”

            The other boy didn’t say anything. Renjun waited as long as he could, then looked over. His mouth was quirked to the side in amusement. “You believe him now, then? What happened?”

            Renjun passed a hand over the back of his neck. “He played a song for me. On his guitar. And I just—i don’t know. I could tell. Maybe I’m wrong.”

            “Or maybe you’re finally right,” Jaemin said, stirring the pot. He glanced over, held his gaze for a moment. “So what are you going to do now?”

            He wasn’t sure. Six nights and change, study halls that he really should’ve spent more productively, and he still had no plan of action. There was no way to fully understand Jeno—there was no way to corroborate a hint of watered down love.

            He was living on a countdown, in more than ways than one. He knew that—knew that holding one’s breath only worked for so long. But it wasn’t too far from the truth to say that he’d forgotten how to breathe.

            Renjun didn’t realize Jaemin had taken the pot off the heat until he felt the warm pressure of the other boy’s hand on his shoulder. The wry tilt hadn’t left his mouth, but his expression was familiar and fond.

            “Don’t overthink it,” he said, looking away to the bowl of eggs. He carefully poured them into a pan. “Just… do your best. Do what you want to do.”

            _Do what I want to do._ Renjun turned the words over in his head, turned his desires and half formed wishes on their sides. He came up with nothing that day, that night, but the next morning found him staring at the credits screen of a rom-com with twelve empty cans of Red Bull and a newfound determination. He had never felt energy like this, had never felt _pain_ like this. It was possible that he needed medical attention.

            Jaemin answered on the first knock, which was uncharacteristic. Usually, at the very least, he needed a two hour nap after his morning run. His hair stuck up in five different directions, and there was crayon on his cheek. He yawned, took a sip of his coffee, and stared through Renjun. “What’s up?”

            Renjun ran a hand through his hair. “I’m going to seduce him.”

            Jaemin spit out a mouthful of coffee. If Renjun had still had control of the human senses, he might’ve been offended. As it was, he just wiped his face. Jaemin blinked at him, then blinked at him again. His jaw was gently agape. He closed it with palpable effort. “You’re going to do _what?”_

“You told me to do what I want—”

            “That’s not what I meant. That is _literally_ not even _close_ to what I meant? Also, since when have you wanted to _seduce Jeno?”_

            “I want to date him,” Renjun said very seriously. It was possible that his huge, sleep deprived raccoon eyes ruined the effect a little. “This is just the—the fastest route to my destination.”

            Jaemin rubbed at his eyes and stared down at his half empty coffee cup with vague consternation. “Life isn’t—life isn’t a fucking GPS system, Renjun.”

            “Maybe you’re not trying hard enough.”

            The other boy laughed, a high, breathy, faintly hysterical sound. “Oh my God. I’m dreaming, right now, right? You’ve been terrified of making a move for four years, and now—this? Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?”

            Renjun shifted on his feet, examined a loose thread with far too much focus. He forced himself to look up. “We’re only—There’s only two months until graduation.”

            Jaemin’s expression softened a little. His mouth twisted into a too sharp smile, and he rubbed at his face with the sleeve of his robe. “Yeah, you’re right. How can I help?”

            Renjun grinned.

 

…

           

            Renjun was different. It wasn’t something Jeno could easily describe, just a shift in the way he walked and spoke and looked at him. Clear skies tinted pink from rose colored glasses, or something of that kind. It was distracting, too, everything he usually found attractive about the other boy magnified until it was nearly unbearable to focus on anything else.

            “You okay?” Renjun asked, leaning into his side. The movement didn’t mean anything, not really. Friends nudged each other. That was normal, and he’d done it a hundred times before. It wasn’t a particularly suggestive nudge, so _why—_ “Jeno?”

            He blinked, and wiped the rain from his face. April was all faint showers, too brief and thin to warrant anything but vague annoyance. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

            He nodded up at the diner. “We’re here, anyway.”

            It was a little crowded for a Wednesday afternoon, but it was probably due to the rain. Laughter rang in the air, cut through by the sound of Renjun closing the door behind him. He walked past Jeno and slid into a booth, running a hand through his wet hair. And there was nothing deliberate about that, but Jeno analyzed it anyway. Renjun had never been easy to read, but there had always been something to read—this was a blank book, crinkled pages with no writing.

            “Are you getting your usual?” Sicheng asked. Jeno reluctantly slipped into the other side of the booth and started to nod, but Renjun cut him off.

            “I’ll just have a straw,” he said, and smiled faintly at Jeno. “I’m not really that hungry, and we have to leave soon. I won’t take that much of your milkshake, promise.”

            Sicheng looked questioningly at Jeno, and he laughed weakly. “That’s fine, I guess. As long as you’re okay with it.”

            _It was the eye contact, probably_ , Jeno thought. Usually, Renjun looked away if he caught him staring. His ears would burn red, and he’d do something with his hands, like run one through his hair. But when he looked up from his phone and caught Jeno staring, he just held the gaze, warm and unfamiliar.

            Sicheng brought back the milkshake and fries. Renjun chewed on the edge of his straw meditatively, and said, “Do you still need someone to go to the spring carnival with?”

            “Mm?” Jeno said, a fry hanging out of his mouth. He chewed and swallowed. “The spring carnival?”

            “Yeah,” he said, leaning over. Jeno’s heart swung around in his chest, untethered. He brushed the edge of his cheek lightly, far too close to his lips for Jeno to be any kind of okay. His smile was a little sharp, when he next spoke. “Sorry, you had something on your face. You said you needed someone to go to the carnival with, last month.”

            “Oh,” Jeno said. His cheek was burning. His face was burning. He closed his eyes and tried again. “So you can come?”

            “If you want me to,” he said, a hint of a challenge in his voice.

            He blinked at him. “Yeah. Of course I do.” Renjun’s eyes softened, just a little, the unfamiliar intensity giving way to something fonder. “Aren’t you going to have homework?”

            His mouth twitched, a shadow of a laugh. “I’ll just get it out of the way earlier in the day. Aren’t you going to have work?”

            “I can ask for that day off,” Jeno said, playing with the condensation on the glass. The milkshake was almost gone, no thanks to him. “Hey, Renjun, about that night—”

            The Pokémon theme played—Renjun’s ringtone. He screwed up his face with embarrassment, and looked away. “One second.” He scowled. “Really? Right now?” Jeno couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation clearly, just a mix of loud voices garbled into static. Renjun pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine, I’m coming. You owe me.” He frowned at the phone before slipping it back in his pocket and offering Jeno an apologetic smile. “It’s Jaemin. He needs help babysitting, since his cousins are over too. I’ll make it up to—”

            He waved his hands. “No, it’s, uh, fine. Really. I’ll talk to you later?”

            Renjun didn’t say anything for a second, just watched him, scrutinizing in a familiar way. He leaned forward and drank the rest of the milkshake, then slipped out of the booth. He smiled, and Jeno’s heart stuttered from one beat to the next—an old tremor, one that he’d thought he’d left behind. “I’ll see you, then.”

            In comparison, Jeno’s smile was faint, weak in a palpable way. He echoed, “See you.”

            After he left, he traced the condensation left on the linoleum table, and allowed him that smile, just the ghost of it.

            Two months. He was definitely fucked.

 

…

 

            “Remind me again why you’re destroying your closet,” Jaemin drawled, head dangling off one side of Renjun’s bed.

            Renjun just tossed a balled-up pair of ripped jeans over his shoulder. “Catch those.”

            Jaemin stretched to the right and intercepted them in their trip over the bed. “Okay, remind me why I’m _watching_ you destroy your closet.”

            “Because you’re a great friend,” Renjun replied, rifling through a box of clothes. “And you have nothing else better to do, and you’re tired of hearing me whine about Jeno so you’re dedicated to resolving this one way or another.”

            He didn’t have to look behind him to know the other boy was smiling. “Yeah, that’s fair. What are you even looking for?”

            “Leather jacket, this one crop top I never wear, and fish nets,” he recited, as if off a list. The Christmas party was probably fuzzy in Jeno’s head—considering how drunk the other boy had been that day—but the anger had kept it clear and alive in Renjun’s. Anyway, considering his expression that night, this outfit was probably his best shot at getting under Jeno’s skin.

            The whole seduction campaign felt a little aimless. Jeno wasn’t acting any different, which certainly wasn’t due to any lack of effort on Renjun’s part. _Maybe his crush at the beginning of the year was real,_ Renjun thought, holding up an old t-shirt to the light before discarding it to the side. There was no real way to tell, at least not now. They were complicated, a mess of emotions and desires and wishes held behind lips pressed tight. Flirting was too simple a word for what Renjun was doing, and this was probably a train wreck waiting to happen, but the only other option was confessing. Renjun was desperate, but he wasn’t _that_ desperate.

            His phone buzzed. Jaemin called, “It’s Jeno. He wants to know whether you like funnel cake.”

            “Tell him I do.”

            Jaemin snorted. “You fucking hate funnel cake. Remember when we first went to the amusement park? You had like one bite and threw the rest away. Waste of cake, if you ask me.”

            “No one did.” He hadn’t thrown away the crop top—he knew _that._ He dug a cardboard box out of the closet and searched through the pile of clothes behind it. The light of the sun wasn’t gone, but it was close—Jeno would be here in a few minutes, and he had _nothing._

            “Ouch,” Jaemin said, and the sheets rustled as he pulled himself into a sitting position. “Just get a churro, or some shit. You guys can go at it from both sides. Lady and the Tramp style.”

            Renjun screwed up his face. “You know what, fuck you. Whatever, text him the truth. I swear to God, where the _fuck_ is this crop top—”

            “Don’t you have another?”

            “A few, but not _that_ one.” Renjun dropped the heap of clothes back on the carpet and turned back towards the bed. “Move your legs, I’m looking under.”

            “Jeno says that you’re heartless and that funnel cake is the only pure thing on this godforsaken planet.”

            “He would. Where is he?”

            The doorbell rang. Renjun hit his head on the bedframe as he crawled out, a scarf on top of his hair. Jaemin held his gaze for a few seconds, taking in the unfiltered terror, then slid off the bed. “I’ll go scare him. You owe me.”

            After another half hour of searching, he found the crop top, then the leather jacket, then the fishnets. By the time he’d finished getting ready, the sun was nearly below the horizon, and Jeno looked a little like someone had just stabbed his pet goldfish in front of him. Jaemin smiled when he came into the living room, leaning forward on his way out to whisper, “Have fun.”

            He glared at his back, and then, hesitantly, redirected his attention to Jeno. Blood was beginning to return to his face; he offered a faint smile. “You ready?”

            Renjun swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

            The smile grew, quirked to the side. He offered his hand, and Renjun took it and followed him out and into the pickup. In the glittering night, the streets just barely illuminated by the old lamps and the moonlight, he felt a little like he was in a Disney movie. Like magic was something that was real, something that he could hold without it trickling through his hands and falling away to nothing.  

            The carnival was already in full swing when they walked in. The metal gates that barred them from the asphalt beyond shone with strobe lights and the gentle reflection of metallic streamers.

            When Renjun looked up, he found Jeno grinning at him, a familiar, knowing sort of grin that only grew wider when he raised his eyebrows. He started off towards the gates, and Renjun had to jog to keep up, tugging at his coat. “Aren’t we going to buy tickets?”

            Jeno dug a pair of rumpled tickets out of one pocket and held them up triumphantly. “Came prepared. What do you want to ride first?”

            They cycled through a couple of the closer rides first—the teacups, then the tilt-a-whirl, and finally, a poorly constructed excuse for a roller coaster that—at most—spanned the length of the Fine Arts building. Every three seconds, Renjun was shoved against Jeno’s side. The warmth was nice, if fleeting. When the ride ended, they spent a few companionable moments on the asphalt, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

            “That was a shit roller coaster,” Jeno said, after the line beside them had petered out to nothing.

            Renjun turned to look at him, and struggled to focus on his face. In the shadows, his eyes had gone from brown to black, the carnival reflected in flecks of silver and gold. “Tell that to the A/V club. They helped set it up.”

            Jeno groaned. “Trust me, I’m gonna be sending them a strongly worded letter… Right after I figure out how to operate a pen. Are you hungry?”

            He opened his mouth to say that he was fine, but his stomach growled faintly, and he scowled downward. Jeno laughed. “So. Churros, huh?”

            Renjun blinked at him. “What?”

            Jeno cocked his head. “You texted me earlier, remember? You hate funnel cake and love churros.”

            Realization dawned on him. “I’m going to fucking murder Jaemin.”

            “Please don’t,” he said, only a little joking. “I would be the prime suspect. I’m too pretty to go to jail, Renjun.”

            “Yeah,” he said, leaning back against the flimsy metal pole. “You are.”

            Jeno, to his credit, only looked a little confused. His ears burned red, but he just coughed and looked away. Renjun rocked forward and tucked a little piece of hair behind his ear. “I do like churros, you know. I call paying, though.”

            “Okay,” he said, dazed. He let Renjun pull him to his feet and through the slowly growing crowds. By the time they made it to the churro stand, that unfamiliar bemusement had faded away, replaced with poorly veiled hunger.

            “One or two?” Renjun whispered, nudging him slightly. They dutifully moved forward in line, and Renjun nudged him again.

            “One,” he said, even though his eyes said something different. “We can share. I just want a few bites.”

            He glared over at him. “I’m getting you your own. Have you eaten at all today?”

            Jeno gave him a watered down version of his puppy dog look. “No groceries.”

            “You could’ve called me.” Despite his best efforts, it came out a little imploring, a little too whiny for his tastes.

            “I’m sorry,” he said, looking remarkably unapologetic. “It’s your turn to order.”

            “How many churros do you want?” the girl in the cut-out window asked. She looked up, hand out to collect his money, before raising her eyebrows. “Oh, it’s _you.”_

            Renjun had to hand it to her—she looked just as apathetic as she had the morning he’d first seen her. Her nametag still read ‘KIM YE RIM’, but this time it was in swirly font. He smiled weakly. “Two churros?”

            Yerim leaned to the right, catching a glimpse of Jeno. “So that’s the boyfriend. The one you got those drinks for.”

            Renjun’s mouth twisted, and he leaned forward, pitching his voice low. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

            She looked unaffected—if anything, her gaze sparkled with mischief. “Close enough. We only have one left—somebody else’s gone out to get more cinnamon and sugar. You’re welcome to wait.”

            Renjun was willing to wait, but before could tell her that, Jeno leaned forward. He wedged his shoulder in the narrow space between Renjun and the other side of the cut out and smiled his Jeno Lee smile. The one that made grandmas give him thirty year old candy and convinced hall monitors that he had never touched an illegal substance in his entire life. “We’ll take it.”

            Renjun turned his body as much as he could in the narrow space, and glared at him. “Will we?”

            “Yep,” he said, cheerful yet firm.

            “That’ll be fifty cents,” Yerim drawled, wiggling her hand. “You two are holding up the line, you know.”

            “You don’t have any more churros to sell,” Renjun said grumpily before dropping the coins in her hand and accepting the churro with his other. He stomped over to an unoccupied picnic bench, sliding in beside Jeno. The other boy cast a cursory glance over his outfit.

            “I think I’m finally desensitized to that outfit,” he announced, stretching out his arms. “It took me all night, but. Small victories.”

            Renjun raised his eyebrows. “What?”

            Jeno blinked at him for a few seconds, uncomprehending, before scrubbing a hand over his face. His neck was red. “Did I say that out loud?” At the following silence, he let out a choked noise. “It’s just—It’s not that you’re—I was just, shocked. Taken aback—It wasn’t anything _bad—”_

            “Do you think it looks bad on me?” he asked, hiding a smile behind the churro.

            “What? _What?_ No, I mean—” Jeno cut off for a few moments, chest heaving, before finally covering his face with his hands. His voice was muffled when he spoke. “It definitely does not, uh, look bad. I mean, not that I, like—You know what. I never said anything.” He pulled his hands away, eyes pleading. “Can you just pretend I didn’t say anything?”

            Renjun grinned, but there was a faint bite of triumph to it. Small victories. “Sure,” he said, holding up the churro and positioning one end near his mouth. “First one to the other side wins.”

            Jeno inhaled the churro. By the time Renjun had chewed through his second bite, Jeno was at the middle, and counting. He slowed down near the end, more to breathe than anything else, and Renjun opened his eyes to see the other boy watching him, mouth faintly parted. There was little to no space between them now—only a single chunk of churro and the warm, spiced air around them.

            This close, it was impossible to focus on the outside world, to process that it held any importance it all. They were a still ripped from a cautionary tale, unfinished and incendiary.

            Jeno didn’t look away. His gaze was steady, soft, belying the flush on his cheeks. His eyes flicked down and back up, and for a second, Renjun couldn’t breathe.

            But the other boy just pinched the chunk of churro between them and pulled apart, popping it into his own mouth. He stared out at the carnival for a moment, expression suddenly unreadable. Renjun took the time to calm his own racing heart. _What the fuck was that?_

            When Jeno looked back, he raised an eyebrow and leaned forward. Renjun reflexively flinched back, skin hot. He looked up—the corner of his Jeno’s mouth twitched in amusement before he wiped away something on his cheek with his thumb.

            “Cinnamon sugar,” he explained. But there was a glint in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

            Renjun huffed. “Whatever.”

            Jeno smiled, an easy, lazy sort of thing. “It’s getting late. What do you want to go on next?” He shrugged, and Jeno laughed. “I don’t really care either. What about the Ferris wheel?”

            The line to the Ferris wheel had grown since the carnival had begun, and by the time they’d walked over, it wrapped around the string of stalls bordering it. After a few minutes of silence, Jeno glanced around the side, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. He let out a sigh. “This is a pain in the ass.”

            Renjun rolled his eyes. “It’ll take, like, twenty minutes tops.”

            He made a face. “Way too long.” His mouth curved with mischief, and Renjun took a single step back. “What?”

            “I don’t know what you’re planning, but I’m not interested.”

            Jeno held out a hand. “Come on.” Renjun shook his head, and he grinned, wiggled the hand. “Please? I’ll do most of the work.”

            “What does that even mean?”

            Instead of answering, he leaned forward, took his hand, and darted behind the back of the stalls. Renjun’s back found cold, damp wood, and he pressed his palms against it to steady himself. His breaths came fast, and when he looked up, Jeno was holding his gaze, dark irises against a darker sky. “Just follow my lead.”

            “What does that _mean?”_

He grinned, but didn’t answer, starting off for the base of the Ferris wheel. Renjun pressed two fingers to the curve under his collarbone, a habit more than a precaution, and set off behind him.

            The truth of it was that he heard Jeno before he saw him.

            “What do you _mean_ I can’t get on right now? Do you know how long I was waiting?”

            “Uh… sir…”

            “And for what? Because I had to take a leak? Fucking _bullshit,_ I even asked your coworker if I could get take a break and still have a spot, and they _said yes._ If I knew this was how their replacement was going to act, I would’ve fucking _held it.”_

            “I-I’m sorry that you feel this way,” the volunteer said. His eyes were wide with fear. Renjun wondered if that was how people actually perceived Jeno, or if this was uncharacteristic even for him.

            Jeno shook his head, expression equal parts disdain and disappointment. “Don’t be sorry. Give me my money back.”

            “What?”

            He flicked his gaze up, and the volunteer took a step back into the metal gate. “Give. Me. My. Money. Back. I’ve already wasted enough time here, and the line is held up, you know.”

            “I-I can’t do that, the tickets are shredded—” He cut off at the look in Jeno’s eyes, swallowing hard.

            There was something ridiculous about the entire situation, to be fair, but Renjun felt like he had responsibilities, as student council president, that he was shirking. He cut through the crowd, slowing to a stop near Jeno. At full height, the other boy was frankly intimidating.

            Renjun sighed deeply, and snaked an arm around Jeno’s waist, squeezing when he felt him go rigid. He looked up at the volunteer. “Sorry, his blood sugar’s a bit low.”

            He stared at him, eyes hollow with confusion, before finally nodding. “It’s, uh, fine.”

            Renjun smiled as agreeably as he could, before leaning forward. His grip on Jeno’s waist loosened, momentarily, and Jeno’s hand covered it, holding it still. He bit back a smile before turning to the volunteer. “Sorry for the scene again. Is it possible we could get a ride, though? I mean—” he paused to read the volunteer’s nametag, “Dongbin, I’m sure you need more people helping out with this job in the future. I’ll see what I can do about that.”

            The blood drained from his face. “You’re student council president.”

            “Yep,” he said cheerfully.

            He took a step back, and gestured at the Ferris wheel as it slowed to a stop. His eyes were lifeless. “Have fun on your trip around the Wheel of Fun.”

            Renjun tugged on Jeno’s hand, pulling him into the small carriage. It rocked from side to side, shunting Renjun to one side and Jeno up against his side. The other boy steadied himself on Renjun’s shoulders before pulling his hands away quickly. The carriage stilled before beginning to ascend.

            Jeno glanced over at him. “What did you say to him?”

            He shrugged. “Just that I’d get the student council to get the Geography club more money next year.”

            “You won’t even be here next year.”

            He shook his head. “He doesn’t need to know that.”

            One side of his mouth curved in a smile. “I didn’t know you were so corrupt.”

            “What can I say?” he deadpanned, leaning back against the side of the carriage. “They start early. Besides, it’s not like I could’ve just sat back and let you terrorize him like that. Do you even know him?”

            Jeno passed a hand over the back of his neck, ashamed. “I’ve never seen him before. I feel so _bad—_ Do you think I should send him an apology card?”

            “Chocolates too,” Renjun said, biting back a yawn. “Really lay it on there.”

            “Maybe a Target gift card,” Jeno added absently. He was watching the lattice of the carnival below, the flickering lights of the town beyond. There was something drawn and yearning in his expression, a kind of rawness that shone under the streaks of moonlight that lit the carriage.

            Renjun reached out his hand hesitantly, before finally brushing it against the crook of his elbow, courage shot to shreds. Without looking over, Jeno covered it with his other hand, holding it still. His skin was warm to the touch, fingers curled loosely. It was difficult to speak, to consciously break such a tenuous quiet. “What are you looking at?”

            They rose higher and higher, the lights below more easily likened to fireflies than lamps. Jeno didn’t answer at first, expression unwavering. When he did speak, his voice was so low it was almost inaudible. “It just… feels so far away. From up here.” He shook his head, clearing it. “It’s disorienting, that’s all.”

            “You’re right,” he said, because it did. The connections of their daily lives were null and void this far above the ground—it brought with it a kind of freedom and a kind of hollowness. “It feels like—nothing matters.”

            Jeno smiled over at him, but it was a faint thing, brought to life by the moonlight. “Okay, maybe not _that_ nihilistic.”

            Renjun shoved at him. “You know what I mean.”

            His gaze softened, imperceptibly. “Yeah. I do.”

            _What would you do if nothing mattered?_

Another night, but the same boy—the same moonlight, the same alloy of hope and resignation in his eyes. A hundred _what if’s_ scattered in the space between them, a minefield that they could never cross.

            But maybe they didn’t have to cross it. Maybe it was enough to reach out, and know that there was someone on the other side.

            Renjun leaned across the seat of the carriage, rested his head on the other boy’s shoulder. There was a soft inhale, a thread of tension that held his body rigid for a single second before Jeno slowly extricated his left arm and pulled him closer.  

            He wouldn’t have done it on the ground, but they weren’t on the ground. They weren’t on the ground, but it was something real regardless, not a half forgotten dream shelved away and left to rot. It was two hands clasped tight; a connection that only held vulnerability if either party wished it.

            Renjun didn’t wish it, and Jeno didn’t either—there was nothing reluctant about him now. Gentle, maybe. His chest rose and fell slowly, a steady rhythm that bent the rest of the night to it. He was warm and unyielding, and though there were so many reasons for him to let go—for Renjun to let go—he didn’t.

            _If nothing matters,_ Renjun thought, watching the lights grow closer as they descended, _Maybe this can._

           

…

 

            _a few hours earlier._

The door swung open, and Jeno smiled at who he’d assumed was Renjun. Jaemin raised his eyebrows at the beginnings of a grin, and he hastily cleared his throat and pushed it away. “Hi. Is, uh, Renjun here?”

            The frightening thing about Jaemin’s smile was that it never _looked_ frightening. It just never quite reached his eyes when he was talking to Jeno. There wasn’t an outright threat in them this time, though, which he figured he had to count as a victory. “He’s upstairs getting ready. Let’s talk.”

            Jaemin turned and walked into the living room. Jeno lingered in the doorway for a second, hesitant. His words were clearly not a _request,_ but he couldn’t fight the feeling he was walking straight off a cliff without a chance to look at the water below. Jaemin reached around him and shut the door before gesturing at a chair. Jeno eyed it warily before taking a tentative seat. “Is this an interrogation?”

            “I guess that depends on you,” he said, choosing to perch on the arm of the sofa. His eyes glittered, but not with malice. “We’ve never really sat down and spoken like this, have we?”

            They hadn’t. Jeno thought it was for the best; he could already feel a stomachache coming on. “Uh—”

            Jaemin sighed, slid onto the couch seat. “Drop the mask of terror, would you? I’m not going to hurt you. At least, not yet. Renjun would be sad.”

            Jeno blinked. “He would?”

            The other boy just held his gaze for a moment, expression inscrutable. Finally, he blew out a breath. “Jesus, this is a train wreck. How do you feel about Renjun?”

            “I—What?” he asked, baffled. He could already feel his ears beginning to burn.

            “How do you feel about Renjun?” Jaemin repeated, enunciating each word. “Romantically. Platonically. Take me through it.”

            Jeno passed a hand over his face, a futile attempt to hide how flustered he was. He flicked his gaze at the clock in the corner. “It’s—a lot—”

            “We have time,” he said, leaning back against the couch.

            He deflated. There really wasn’t any way around this. He was going to have to dissect his emotions in Renjun’s living room, in front of one of the only people in the world that held true hatred for him.

            As if he could read his mind, Jaemin interjected, “I don’t hate you. I’m… wary. There’s a difference.”

            Jeno made a face. “You hate me a little.”

            He shrugged. “Can you blame me? Anyway, tick tock. The quicker we get to your wishy-washy bullshit, the quicker that hate goes away.”

            Despite his cavalier words, there wasn’t a single hint of humor on his face. Jeno closed his eyes. There wasn’t an easy way to word it all, but he had to. “It’s like—it’s like an onion.”

            Jaemin looked unimpressed. “Shitty simile, but keep going.”

            “It’s like—at first, I don’t know why I liked him. He’s… beautiful. Obviously. He didn’t smile at me much in the beginning, but each one was worth so much. I thought it was love at first sight, I’ll be honest, but I know now that that wasn’t what it was. Infatuation? But that didn't last long, because he hated me. Like—you _know_ he really hated me back then, and it was all I could do not to piss him off by just, like, breathing. A casual crush would've faded in, like, seconds in the face of that.” Once he’d started speaking it was like he couldn’t stop, some earnest, humiliating fountain of words inside of him spilling it all out for anyone to see.

“But then it got worse. I liked the way he bit his lip when he drew in class, the way he rolled his eyes when he smiled at me, the way he got me energy drinks before class to pay me back for that shitty container of banana milk. It was the small things, and the big things, and yeah, I guess it hurt, because I knew that he hated me anyway.” Jeno exhaled, and it was a little shakier than he’d meant it to be. “But it’s not like—it’s not like I could stop, you know. I tried, for a bit, and that went to shit, as expected, so I just resigned myself to it. To silently pining and silently praying that I wasn’t making him, like, super fucking uncomfortable with it.”

“And it was something. Not a friendship, but not _not_ a friendship. And then my, uh. Something happened, and back then, I thought he still hated me, that this was just something he hung on to for funsies, or some shit. So I didn’t tell him. And when he told me he _didn’t_ hate me, I was fucking floored, to be honest. I wanted to tell him, after, but it was so much easier to just… float.” He ran a hand through his hair, pointedly looking away from Jaemin. “It was just… easier to hang on to what we’d always had and pretend that everything was okay. And I know that that was wrong. I _know,_ and I know that he’s forgiven me, and I know that he probably shouldn’t have.”

“And yet I… I don’t know,” he forced himself to hold the other boy’s gaze. It was unreadable, as always. “I still can’t fucking let go of it. I mean, you asked me how I feel about him. I love him. Romantically. I know I shouldn’t, but I do. But I won’t… make a scene of it. I’ll be his friend. I know how to do that.”

            Jaemin didn’t say anything for a moment, just stared back. Finally, he scrubbed a hand over his face and mumbled something to himself that sounded suspiciously like “this is fucking ridiculous”. He sighed, then glanced up, clicked his tongue. “What’s he told you about his family? About this house?”

            Jeno wrinkled his nose. “I _hate_ them.”

            He grinned, a surprisingly youthful gesture on him when genuine. “Right answer.” The smile faded as he glanced around the room. “I’ve known him since he moved here. He’s not perfect, but he’s good. He deserves something good.”

            Jeno swallowed hard. “I know that.”

            Jaemin raised his eyebrows, but it was mirthless. _Do you?_ “He wants something real, you know. Not a couple smiles and radio silence, not secrets stacked on top of each other until they topple everything underneath, not a—a fucking _fling._ He wants something he can hold onto, something that won’t leave him even if he doesn’t ask it to stay. He’s romantic that way, I guess.” He narrowed his eyes. “You know why I’m telling you this?”

            Possibilities floated through his brain, self deprecating and unrealistic. He shook his head.

            Jaemin tilted his head. He wasn’t smiling—his expression was a little too sharp to be a smile. “Because he trusts you. Hell if I know why, but he does. And I think that you’re telling the truth, about loving him. So here’s your chance, Lee Jeno. Do you think you can give him that?”

            “I can,” he said, the words gone from his lips before he’d consciously thought them. There wasn’t much Jeno was good at, but, ironically, loving Renjun was definitely one of his rare talents.

            Jaemin blinked, surprise at the surety of his answer momentarily displacing his stoic demeanor. Then it disappeared, replaced by a challenge. “Then show him.” For a moment, it seemed like he was going to add something else, but there was a thump in the distance. Renjun, probably.

            He shook his head and got up from the couch, bending to whisper in his ear, “For what it’s worth, I’m rooting for you two.”

            Jeno stared after him, but he only offered a vague smile as Renjun stuck his head, and then the rest of his body into the room. He whispered something to Renjun on the way out, and then Jeno was left to confront Renjun’s outfit and the lingering question of Jaemin’s words— _rooting for them?—_ on his own.

           

…

 

            “Your birthday’s tomorrow,” Renjun said, sliding into the seat opposite him during Art. He pulled out his pencils, sketchbook and water bottle, organizing them on his desk. He glanced up and raised his eyebrows. “Got anything planned?”

            Jeno made a face. “Before you try to pull some surprise party shit, let me just tell you Hyuck and the rest beat you to it. It’s at seven tomorrow, at the apartment.”

            The other boy visibly bit back a laugh. “Did they even try to hide it?”

            “I think they’ve given up,” he grinned. Renjun smiled back, just the curve of his mouth and nothing more. Jeno’s heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. _Then show him._ He drew in a breath. “I’d like it if you could come.”

            He hid his expression behind a sip of water before clearing his throat. “I was planning to.”

            There was a hint of an uncharacteristic reticence in his gaze, but before Jeno could say anything about it, Seo banged on his desk with a flower pot and he looked away.

            To keep up the façade of a surprise party, Jeno worked a little late at the diner, scrubbing at nonexistent stains as if the repetitive motion of it could untangle the knots in his brain. Even though he didn’t have a shift today, Jaehyun had dropped by with a couple cupcakes and a feather duster. They’d all wished him happy birthday, and he’d blown out the three old candles Sicheng had found in a drawer in the backroom. The glow of the flame had disappeared quickly, but the warmth lingered.

            At a quarter to seven, his phone buzzed from where it lay on the edge of the counter. Jungwoo held up a hand to stop him and pulled it over, reading off, “’Come home quickly.’ Is this about that party you were talking about?”

            Jeno snorted and folded up the dishrag, wiping his hands on his apron. “Yeah, tell them I’m on my way.”   

            He could hear the party before he knocked on the door, could hear the thump of something alarmingly heavy a couple floors down. He raised his hand to knock, and heard a whispered _‘oh, he’s here, shut the fuck up’_ from inside. Jeno turned the knob and walked in loudly, out of respect for their hard work. “Is anyone here?”

            “Happy birthday!” Donghyuck said it first, the letters all pressed together like it was a confession. Mark said it loudest, Yukhei said it last, and Jisung didn’t say it at all, just walked over and patted him on the shoulder.

            Jeno raised his eyebrows. “Was that meant to be a hug? Because if it was, that was a terrible attempt.”

            Jisung made a face. “Happy birthday. I’ll visit you at the retirement home.”

            He smiled, and looked past him to the rest of his friends. “So? Where’s my food and presents?”

            Donghyuck pointed at a small pile at the base of the coffee table. “Help yourself. Pizza’s in the kitchen.”

            It was a modest set of presents, just some candy and a few gift cards, but Jeno could feel himself tearing up over it and turned away to hide his face. Simple kindnesses were always so much stronger, so much harder to bear. The thought brought a hundred nameless nights to his mind, and he glanced towards the door.

            “Is… Renjun here?” he asked Donghyuck.

            He waggled his eyebrows. “Turn down the loverboy setting for a couple seconds. Jaemin says they’re on their way.” He took a sip of a suspicious amber liquid and turned towards him. “So. What’s up with you two?”

            His cheeks burned. “Nothing.”

            Donghyuck didn’t say anything, just took another sip. He rolled his eyes. “I don’t know, okay. Jaemin told me to ‘show him how I feel’. Whatever the hell that means. And the carnival was… nice. Really nice. I just… I don’t want to make him uncomfortable, or something.”

            “What are you two talking about?” Yukhei said, draping himself over an armchair. “You and Renjun? You’re still circling each other?”

            “Like sharks,” Jisung confirmed. Jeno batted a hand at him, but he just grinned and dodged out of the way.

            “They’re in a cosmic orbit of love,” Donghyuck deadpanned. “The sun and the moon never touch, and all that shit. Ugh, I can’t even say that seriously. You two are disgusting.”

            The doorbell rang, and everyone looked up. Jeno could feel his heart beating in his throat. Mark smiled and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Go get him, tiger.”

            “I hate you,” he said. “I hate all of you.”

            It rang again. Donghyuck smiled sweetly. “Don’t keep him waiting.”

            He opened the door seconds before the next ring, Jaemin’s hand poised in the air. He shot Jeno a meaningful look. “Happy birthday.”

            “Thanks,” he said warily. The other boy smiled thinly and ducked into the house.

            Renjun was still in the hallway, arms wrapped around a covered canvas twice the size of his torso. He hefted it up, expression strained with concentration. Jeno blinked at him. “What’s that?”

            He looked up so quickly it nearly slid through his arms. Jeno reached forward to keep it from hitting the floor, supporting the sides of Renjun’s arms. He made a strangled noise and yanked it from Jeno’s hands, backing up against the other wall. After a few seconds, he poked his head out from the right side of the canvas. His face was red. “Sorry, I just. It’s. For you. I mean, obviously it’s for you. But it’s a surprise.”

            Jeno leaned against the doorjamb awkwardly. “Ah. Do you want to come in?”

            “Yeah,” he said, breathless. “That’d be nice.”

            Jeno held the door open for him, screwing his eyes tight so he couldn’t see the painting. If he wanted to surprise him, he’d let him. It’d been a long time since he’d been surprised by anything kind anyway.

            “What’s _that?”_ Yukhei said from the main room. By the time he’d walked back in, Jisung was picking at the thin cloth covering Renjun had wrapped around it. Renjun was sitting on the edge of the couch, hand outstretched as if to stop him.

            “Jisung,” Jeno called. He shot him a dirty look but pulled his hands away. Jaemin reappeared with a cup of water and a plate of pizza, which he handed to Renjun. He wiped his hands on his jeans and accepted it, shooting him a grateful look.

            “Can we see it?” Donghyuck asked, leaning against Mark’s arm. “Or is it for Jeno’s eyes only?”

            Renjun flushed but didn’t say anything in response. Yukhei whistled and Jeno shoved him. “Lay off. He doesn’t like people looking at his art, anyway.”

            “It’s fine,” Renjun said quietly. “If Jeno’s okay with it, I am. It’s his painting.”

            Four pairs of eyes flicked up expectantly. Renjun’s remained fixed on the canvas, but his fingers fidgeted with the paper plate. Jeno scratched his ear. “I want to see it first.” A chorus of dissent followed, so he raised his hand. “Renjun can come, since it’s his painting. You can see after.”

            The sound of jeering and faint laughter followed them all the way to Mark’s room. Renjun refused to meet his eyes, hands clenched tight at his sides. Jeno reached out for one of them with his free hand, uncurling the fingers. He glanced up, surprised. Jeno shifted the position of the painting in his other arm. “I thought you didn’t like people looking at your art.”

            Renjun worried at his bottom lip. “It’s just… I mean, if I do end up going into art, then I’d have to let everyone see my art. I can’t stay like this forever, no matter what I do. And I think that this is a good place to start.”

            “You like this piece that much?” he asked, nudging open the door.

            Renjun shrugged. “Not really. But I trust you.”

            Something warm unfurled in his chest, and he ducked his head to hide his smile. More than the words themselves, it was the way he said them. As if it was something simple and true.

            Renjun nodded at Mark’s bed. “Sit down.”

            “What?”

            His cheeks burned pink. “Sit down and close your eyes. I’ll tell you when to open them.”

            He rolled his eyes but folded his legs and took a seat on the edge of the bed. “This is a little dramatic.”

            Renjun huffed but didn’t say anything else. He leaned forward and put his hands on Jeno’s, pulling them away from his face. For a second, he nearly couldn’t breathe.

            It was a painting of Jeno. He knew it instinctively, knew it from the sting of familiarity as he recognized the scene as Renjun’s birthday, the day he’d taken him to the beach. But it was difficult to reconcile himself with the version of himself from the painting, a creature of carmine and violet and a simple happiness he couldn’t remember how to feel.

            In the painting, he was standing in the shallows, a single hand outstretched to the ocean as if he could touch the sun where it rested on the edge of the horizon. Water pooled around the other Jeno’s ankles, but he wasn’t looking at the water or the sun. He was glancing back at the shore. At where Renjun had probably sat.

            _Did I really look that lovesick?_ Jeno managed to wonder through the daze in his head. Renjun cleared his throat and he looked up. His entire face looked like a tomato. “What do you think?”

            _What did he think?_ He didn’t know if he could put it into words, didn’t know if there was a word that could even begin to encompass all that he felt. His hands were curled in half fists at his sides and he pulled them to his chest as if the motion would help him pull himself together. He forced himself to hold Renjun’s gaze. “I love it.”

            He flushed, impossibly. “I’m… glad.”

            Jeno swallowed. “Renjun, I…”

            He looked up, cocked his head to the side. It was familiar in a fond way, and Jeno struggled to keep himself still and not do something stupid, like jump out a window or kiss him. “What?”

            Every movement felt like he was pushing through fire, but still he forced himself to pull the painting from his hands and place it on the bed. There was something akin to fear, or to hope, in Renjun’s eyes. He closed his eyes. “Do you want to go to prom with me?”

            At the following silence, Jeno cracked open one of his eyes. The blood had drained from Renjun’s face. He didn’t look like he was breathing. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ Jeno raised his hands quickly. “I mean. It’s fine, if you don’t. And. Like. I’m asking as friends.”

            “As friends?” he asked, quietly, tonelessly. He wasn’t looking at Jeno’s face.

            “Yeah,” he answered. His heart was an anvil in the cavern of his body, searing his viscera as it sunk all the way from his throat to his stomach. He swallowed hard. _This is okay. This is enough._ “As friends.”

            “Oh,” Renjun said. He took Jeno’s hands in his own. He was trembling, faintly. “I would like that. To go to prom with you.”

            Renjun didn’t say anything else about prom for the rest of the night. They brought the painting back into the living room and everyone oohed and ahhed at the correct times and he smiled, proud in a palpable way. But his eyes were on Jeno the entire time.  

 

…

 

            Time warped around moments, special ones. They became impossible to forget, a few moments held in amber and left to harden in your heart. They became impossible to forget, whether you wanted to or not.

            Before it happened, everything was perfect. Not picture perfect—Renjun was still wondering when he was going to ask Jeno if he wanted to go to prom as something _other_ than friends, and Yukhei had dropped his fries on the ground, and Donghyuck was on the verge of failing Trig. But they were happy. If he had frozen the still of that moment, if he’d painted it to life, they’d all be smiling.

            But perfection was meant to be impermanent. To go up was to go down, no matter how far there was to fall.

            The door swung open, and the smiles froze, cracked. Jeno unfolded himself from where he was leaned against the table, one hand curled loosely against the edges of his apron. When he spoke, it was not so much his voice as it was the ghost of it, a paper thin replica held up by stone cold fear. “Jisung?”

            The boy didn’t speak, just curled himself around the side of the doorframe. His fingers shook against the metal, but still he clenched them tighter. Jeno lifted his hand from the apron, stretched them out as if to touch him. His fingers were shaking. “Jisung? Why are you over there? What’s wrong?”

            The door to the kitchen opened quietly, and Jaehyun walked out. Sicheng glanced over at him and put a finger to his lips. He was paler than Renjun had ever seen him.

            Jisung pushed away from the door, the force ringing the bell above him. The tinny sound resounded through the diner, nearly masking the small, choked noises he was making. He collapsed in Jeno’s arms, hands bunched in the thin fabric of Jeno’s t-shirt as he wrapped his arms around him.

            Jeno didn’t move. Renjun wasn’t sure if he was breathing. He was looking down at Jisung, face bloodless. His lips were moving ceaselessly, mouthing a single phrase over and over.  _Not him._

            “Jisung?” Donghyuck asked tentatively. Jeno blinked and glanced over, as if only now realizing that they weren’t alone. The realization did little to nothing to his expression, though. There was only so much you could do to cover up unfiltered terror.

            He took a deep breath and shifted Jisung in his arms, lifting a hand to tilt his face up. Jisung pushed it further down. “What happened?”

            “I don’t want you to see it,” he said, voice muffled by Jeno’s chest. “You’ll be upset.”

            Jeno laughed, a high, tremulous sound that held absolutely no humor. “I’m already upset. You haven’t cried since the second grade. What happened?”

            Jisung hesitated before lifting his head from Jeno’s chest. Renjun inhaled sharply, reflexively. Mark’s hands curled around his drink, condensation trickling down his fingers.

            Jeno stared at him, bit through his lip for so long that when he opened his mouth his lips were both stained cherry red. He raised a hand, gently, and brushed the hair out of Jisung’s face. “He did this to you?”

            The other boy looked away. “It was an accident this time. He just—There was a bottle in his hand.”

            “This time?” Jeno whispered, a razor sharp edge to his voice. “Jisung—”

            “I’m sorry,” he said, pushing his face back into the other boy’s chest. “I’m sorry for not telling you. It’s just that—that you already worry so much, and I didn’t want to add to it. I’m sorry.”

            “How long has this been happening?” he asked, voice ragged. Jisung mumbled something into his shirt. Jeno closed his eyes and repeated the question. Every word seemed to take something from him.

            “Since they made you leave,” he whispered.

            Jeno exhaled and pulled him even closer. He didn’t open his eyes, and Jisung didn’t pull away. After a few moments, Jeno held him at arm’s length, turned his face to examine the cut and the bruise forming around it. Jisung squirmed in his arms. Jeno sighed. “You’re staying with me.”

            Jisung frowned. “It’s already cramped in Mark’s apartment. Where are you going to sleep? The inflatable mattress? It’ll give you back problems. You’re already old.”

            Jeno glared at him. “Don’t try to wiggle your way out of this. I’m not letting you go back there. Never again.”

            “My backpack—”

            “Jisung,” he said, and Jisung stopped talking. Jeno wasn’t looking at him, staring at the edge of the counter with a painful kind of focus. He exhaled, a jagged, raw sound. “I would rather you fail all your classes and drop out of school than go back there again. I can’t—I can’t handle the thought of them hurting you again. Please.”

            Jisung grimaced. “Okay.”

            Jeno glanced over at the rest of them. He’d done a good enough job of cleaning up the terror—all that remained was a serious mask and a hint of bewilderment.

            The words were out before he’d registered thinking them, and in the silence of the diner they rang out, nearly tangible. “You can stay with me. There’s a guest room, and my parents’ room, if you want it.”

            Jisung looked over from where he was still tightly encircled in Jeno’s arms. “Really? You’d do that for us?”

            Jeno didn’t say anything, just stared at him, red lips parted in a question. Renjun tried to smile. “Yeah, of course. And I can try to talk to your teachers about it, too. If it’s too hard to go back.”

            Jisung's eyes were wide. “Thank you.”

            They cleaned up silently, Sicheng coming over to help clear the table. Jeno pulled away from Jisung to pull off his apron, but he never let go. Mark cleared his throat and nodded towards the door. “I’ll drive you all over.”

            Jeno nodded, listless. Jisung tugged his hand away and jogged to catch up with the others. “I want shotgun!”

            Renjun slid out of the booth and took Jeno’s hand with both of his. The other boy turned to face him, gaze focused on where their fingers met. “Thank you.”

            He shook his head. “It’s—It’s nothing.”

            Jeno looked up at him, fingers tightening on his. “It’s not nothing.”

            “Even if it wasn’t,” Renjun said slowly, quietly, “I would still do it. Because I want to.”

            “Okay,” he whispered, and let Renjun lead him out of the diner and into Mark’s truck. He didn’t say anything else until they pulled up in front of Renjun’s house. They filed into the living room silently. Mark, Yukhei, and Jisung were sandwiched together on the couch. Donghyuck sat on the edge of the armchair, examining an old magazine Renjun had left on the coffee table. Jeno lingered by the hallway, the thin sunlight rendering him a ghost of himself.

            Renjun’s mind was a sea, a roiling ocean of every negative emotion he’d ever known. Fear and anger and worry and a hopeless kind of despair, and a heavy, unending panic superimposed over it all. But seeing them all sitting there, unsure, fidgeting, it was as if a switch flipped in his head, and he pushed it all away. Host mode turned on, and he offered them an attempt at a gracious smile. “Do you guys want something to drink? I’ll order in pizza if you’re still hungry.”

            Mark shot him a grateful look. “That’d be great. Jisung?”

            “I’m fine with whatever,” Jisung said and winced. Jeno crossed over to the couch and tilted his face up.

            “The first aid supplies—” he started.

            Renjun nodded towards the back. “It’s in the guest bathroom cupboard. You know where it is.”

            He nodded wordlessly and helped Jisung up. Once they were out of earshot, the room was silent again. Yukhei blew out a long sigh, leaning back against the couch cushions. “This is a mess.”

            “Yep,” Donghyuck agreed, popping the p. He glanced up at Renjun. “Thanks, by the way. For putting them up.”

            Mark nodded. “We really appreciate it. There’s room at my place, but it would be a little cramped, especially with how often everyone comes over.”

            “It’s no problem,” he said, leaning back against the kitchen doorway. His chest still burned with worry, but it was a little more manageable now. “I’ll go get you all water.”

            He pulled out five glasses and filled them all with tap water. The process of it was almost rhythmic, methodical in a soothing way. Pull, place, fill, remove and set to the side. Except Renjun kept clutching the glasses too tight, wrapped his fingers around the chipped, sharp edges, and waited too late to remove them from the water. The overflow soothed the cuts on his hands, the cold numbing them, but there was still a sharp stab of anxiety at wasting the water, at taking too long.

            Renjun wiped his hands on his sweatshirt, rubbing away the thin, diluted blood, and placed the glasses on a tray. He made it into the living room without shaking too hard, which he figured had to be counted as a victory here.

            He handed them the glasses and placed the two remaining ones on the coffee table. He could feel Donghyuck watching him carefully, the way Jaemin did before asking a question. He glanced up and wiped his hands again. “What is it?”

            Donghyuck cast a scrutinizing look around the house. He tapped his fingers against the glass of water. “When are your parents going to be back?”

            Renjun swallowed. It was heartening, to be sure, that Jeno hadn’t told them his secrets. But it was difficult to explain away what had taken months of them dancing around each other in a few sentences. The sentences existed, but they stuck in his throat, barbs catching on the soft flesh. “They—I-I live alone.”

            Yukhei cocked his head. “So you’re an orphan?”

            “No,” Jeno said from the hallway. Jisung stood by him, a clean white bandage pressed against his forehead. The blood had returned to his face, but his expression was still faintly strained. “He lives alone.”

            Donghyuck nodded, the answer seeming to satisfy him. Before Renjun could decide whether or not he wanted to elaborate, the doorbell rang. He pushed away from the wall. “I’ll get it.”

            Jaemin was leaned against the other side, two canvas bags in each hand. He held them up. “Brought leftovers. Mom thinks you’re getting too skinny.” He looked past him and inhaled sharply at the others. Carefully, he asked, “Should I just leave these here?”

            Renjun glanced over his shoulder, but everyone was looking at Jeno. He shook his head. “If you want to stay, you’re welcome. I don’t mind you knowing.”

            Jaemin nodded. “Okay. I’ll leave these in the kitchen then.”

            “I’ll help you.” Renjun looped his hands around two of the bags and winced, nearly dropping them. He swallowed hard and held them tight.

            Jaemin narrowed his eyes. “Give them to Hyuck.”

            “What?”

            He ignored him, calling out to Jeno, “Hey, loverboy. Go bandage his hands.”

            Jeno led him to the guest bathroom with one hand around his wrist. Renjun tried to wriggle out of his grip, but it was too tight. He sighed. “I’m fine, Jeno. Don’t worry about me.”

            He didn’t say anything, nudging open the door and gesturing at the closed toilet seat. Renjun shot him a dirty look and reluctantly took a seat. He dabbed a wad of cotton with alcohol and reached out for Renjun’s hand. At the resounding hiss, he said, “Your hands weren’t cut at the diner.”

            He swallowed hard. “It was an accident. They’re not deep.”

            “Doesn’t have to be deep to hurt,” he said.

            There was a moment of companionable silence then, as Jeno carefully unwrapped Mickey Mouse band-aids and pressed them to his cuts. Renjun exhaled. “Are you okay with Jaemin knowing?”

            He shook his head. “I don’t care about keeping it a secret anymore. And he’s your friend. So I trust him.”

            Renjun watched him brush the trash together and crumple it into a small, dense ball. He tossed it into the waste bin, and held out a hand to help Renjun up. His expression was still unreadable, that carefully curated balance between seriousness and apathy. Renjun lifted a hand without thinking much of it, but let it drop. “Are you okay?”

            Jeno exhaled wearily. He passed a hand over his face. “I have to be.”

            “That’s not what I asked.”

            The other boy held his gaze for a few beats, then looked away. His voice was low. “Can we talk about this later?”

            Renjun nodded, and followed him out of the bathroom. “Okay.”

            The living room was a lot livelier than they’d left it. Jaemin had served everyone dinner on patterned paper plates Renjun had bought on sale for thirty cents a pack. Yukhei had figured out how to operate the television and he and Jisung were arguing on which crappy action film to put on. Donghyuck and Mark were whispering together, brows drawn together, but they moved apart when they saw Renjun and Jeno had returned.

            Jeno took a seat, cross-legged, on the carpet beside the coffee table. Renjun lowered himself to the floor next to him, wringing his hands in his lap. Jeno glanced over at him, putting a hand on one of his and flattening it, before addressing the room at large. “We should talk about this.”

            Jisung wrapped his arms around himself. “Do we have to?”

            His gaze softened, imperceptibly. “Yeah. Just for a bit.”

            Jaemin raised his hand. “Donghyuck filled me in on everything. If this is a long-term thing, I can bring over more food from my place.”

            Yukhei cocked his head. “Why were you bringing over food in the first place?”

            Renjun coughed and ducked his head. “It’s for me. His family just worries a lot.”

            “For good reason,” Jaemin said, glaring over at him. “Anyway, we have extra blankets and toiletries too, since my extended family stays over a lot. So you don’t need to go back, or buy extra shit if you don’t want to.”

            “Thank you,” Jeno said. “I—Renjun, I don’t want to impose on you.”

            “You wouldn’t be,” he answered cautiously.

            “But—”

            Renjun squeezed his hand. “This house is always empty. I appreciate the company. Stay as long as you need.”

            “Okay,” Jeno said, but it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself. He swallowed. “Jisung told me that—he told me what they did. They didn’t kick him out, he just ran away. So all his stuff is still there.”

            “I can go back—”

            Jeno broke in. “You are not going back. Under any circumstances. If you need anything, I—I’ll go back.”

            “Jeno, no—” Donghyuck interrupted.

            Mark lifted his hands in a placating gesture. “Let’s just—take the night off. Rest a little bit. In the morning we can figure out who’s going back, how we’re going to do it, what the long term plan is here. Renjun, how long can they stay here?”

            _How long can_ I _stay here?_ Jeno rubbed his thumb against the back of his hand. “Until—graduation, I think.”

            “That’s more than enough time,” Jeno said. He glanced at the others. “Are you guys staying over tonight?”

            Yukhei frowned. “Won’t it be a little crowded?”

            Renjun shrugged. “A few of you can take the living room, and the others can take my parents’ room. Jeno and Jisung, if you want, you can sleep in the guest room. Do you have to go home tonight, Jaemin?”    

            He shook his head. “I’ll stay. I’ll take the floor in your room.”

            “You’re taking the bed.”

            “Floor.”

            _“Bed.”_

Jaemin rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

            Renjun smiled, but it was faint. “I’ll go get the blankets and pillows for whoever wants to sleep here. You guys just—hang out.”

            “I’ll come with you,” Jeno piped up. Jaemin was shooting him a meaningful look, and Jeno was purposefully avoiding the meaningful look, eyes fixed on Renjun. He nodded, and Jeno pulled himself to his feet.

            They were silent as they padded through the hallways, silent as they walked up the stairs. Renjun held open the door to his room and Jeno followed him in, shutting it behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. “A lot of the extra blankets are in that wardrobe over there—”

            Jeno leaned forward and wrapped his arms around him. Renjun didn’t move for a second, shocked at the sudden movement. He could feel Jeno trembling around him, fingers digging into the fabric of his sweatshirt. They were so close that when he turned, his cheek pressed against the side of Renjun’s neck, wet with tears. He pulled back, eyes red rimmed. There were spots of color high on his cheeks. “I-I’m sorry, I should’ve asked.”

            Renjun reached a hand up and wiped his cheek. Jeno went still. “If you need someone to cry on, just cry on me. My sweatshirt’s already a mess from the blood, anyway.”

            Jeno bit his lip. “I—”

            He leaned forward and pulled him close. Jeno tilted his head down so his face was muffled by his shoulder. Then, and only then, did he allow himself to let go.

            Jeno was not a pretty crier. The sobs wracked his body, silent save for occasional choked gasps. It was a pained, stifled sort of thing, internal bleeding translated into sound. He made a strangled sound, and only after a few failed, muffled attempts did Renjun realize he was trying to speak. He pulled away, tugged him over to the bed. Jeno sat cross-legged on the comforter, holding Renjun’s hands in his. He traced the Mickey Mouse band-aids with a painstaking gentleness.

            When he looked up at Renjun, his eyes were glassy. Softly, he said, “I don’t know how to be okay with this.”

            “I’m sorry.” An apology meant nothing—it _changed_ nothing, just stood as another symbol of how little he _could_ do to help. But it was all that he could say.

            His mouth twisted, sharp and jagged. “It’s just that—I’m afraid. It’s like I’m living out my worst nightmare, one that I never managed to understand. I don’t know where to go from here, but I _have_ to know. I just—I can’t let him go back. I thought he’d be okay if I was gone, since they never looked at him too hard anyway, but—I hate myself for not taking him with me. I didn’t want to make him live the way I was, on Mark’s couch, but maybe—maybe it was just cowardice.”

            “It’s not your fault, Jeno,” Renjun said, wrapping his fingers around his hand and squeezing once.

            “But it is,” he insisted, face contorted with misery. “If I’d been different—If I’d had my shit together, maybe he would’ve told me sooner. And now—I just don’t know. I don’t know who to be and how to help him and how to fix this when I never even tried to fix it myself.”

            Renjun shook his head. “Jeno, Jisung did it because he _cared._ That doesn’t make it right, but—he admires you. It’s not because he doesn’t think you can handle it.”

            He blew out a shaky breath. “I-I know. I know I’m being irrational.” Jeno sighed, and raked his free hand through his hair. “I just don’t know where to go from here.”

            He worried at his lip. “Do you trust me?”

            Jeno looked up, tilted his head to the side. He blinked. “Yeah? Why?”

            _This is a bad idea, this is a bad idea, this is—_ “I have an idea. A way to get all your stuff out, and maybe make them leave you both alone. I don’t know how realistic it is, but I think I could pull it off. But it’s your choice. This is your life, and I don’t want to—I don’t want to fight your battles for you if you don’t want me to.”

            Jeno smiled. His eyes were still red and watery, voice raw when he spoke, but it was the most warmth he’d shown since Jisung had showed up at the diner. “I suspect you’ll fight a couple of them before this all ends.”

            “So it’s okay?”

            He nodded, squeezed his hand back. “I trust you. If you want to explain it all later, in front of everyone, then that’s okay too.”

            “Okay,” he said, closing his eyes. He pulled himself off the bed, Jeno’s hand trailing after him. They pulled the blankets and pillows out of the wardrobe and brought them downstairs. Renjun stacked them in the corner of the couch and watched Jisung walk over to Jeno, point at his eyes and frown. Jeno shook his head and smiled.

            Once he was finished, he clapped his hands together. He glanced over at Jeno, who gave him an encouraging thumbs up and a half hearted attempt at a smile. He drew in a breath. “I think I have a plan.”

            Mark blinked. “So quickly? What is it?”

            Renjun’s ears burned, and he grimaced. “Well, first of all, I’ll need a ride.”

 

…

 

            “Are you sure you’ll be okay on your own?” Mark said, for what had to be the twentieth time, as they pulled up to Jeno’s house. Renjun had only been there a handful of times, and honestly, he liked it that way. There was something unnerving and overgrown about it. “Renjun?”

            He shook his head. “I promise I’ll be _fine._ Remember, if I make an O with my hands…”

            “You need a little more time,” Mark repeated, leaning forward to switch off the gas. “And if you make an X, then I should just leave and get the others.”

            “Yep,” Renjun said, exhaling slowly. A small voice in the back of his head was still a little uncertain, still heavily stressing the dangers of this plan and how much it depended on his ability to sell a bunch of bullshit dressed up to look like the truth. But it was their best shot. He rubbed at his eyes. _This is a fucking mess._ He unlocked the door and slid out, saluting Mark sarcastically. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

            “Good luck,” he called.

            Renjun fiddled with the badge he’d brought before tucking it into his back pocket. The late spring weather was arid around here, and the dry grass crunched under his feet, weeds slithering through the cracks in the pavement. He paused in front of the door, fist raised to knock. _Am I really doing this? Is this really going to work?_

He remembered Jeno’s face after Jisung had first told him, the terror in his expression, and exhaled. There was no going back now. He knocked twice. Met with silence, he lifted his fist to knock again. The door swung open, revealing a rail thin lady in her late 40s. The lines of her face were severe and unapologetic. Her hair was loosely tied back with a rainbow hair tie. She was much shorter than Jeno or Jisung, and wore a threadbare sweater over cargo pants. She frowned out at him. “What is it?”

            He smiled. “Is your husband here?”

            The irritation on her face disappeared, replaced with a guarded acerbity. “Who’s asking?”

            Another figure appeared in the distance, a shadow against the wall of the hallway farther in. “Seol? Who is it?”

            She opened her mouth to answer, and closed it again, uneasiness flattening her mouth. “Some kid. Says he wants to see you.”

            The figure resolved into a real person. Jeno’s father was a little shorter than his oldest son. He was a little on the scruffy side, and his hair stuck out in multiple directions. He scratched at his shirt, unsure, before padding down the hallway and joining his wife. There was nothing of Jisung or Jeno in his face. There was a jagged sort of cruelty there that Renjun had never seen before. He swallowed hard, tried to gather the remnants of his courage. He yawned. “Who are you?”

            Renjun pulled the badge out of his back pocket, holding it up to the light. The blood drained from Jeno’s mom’s face. He smiled thinly and cocked his head to the side. “My name’s Huang Renjun. I’m an intern at City Hall, working with the police department on a project regarding community outreach for victims of abuse. If you don’t mind, I have a few questions for the two of you.”

            Jeno’s father stared at him for a few seconds. His gaze was hard, unyielding. Finally, he reached past his wife and moved to shut the door. Renjun slid his foot in the gap between the edge and the doorjamb. Softly, he said, “I don’t think you want to turn me away, Mr. Lee. It would be in your best interest to let me in. This discussion is nowhere near imperative for _me.”_

The other man’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want? Really?”

Renjun smiled blithely and slid the badge back into his pocket. “I’m glad you asked.”

 

…

 

            Jeno couldn’t sit still.

            He’d spent the entire day fiddling with the house. He’d organized the books in the living room in alphabetical order, and straightened all the cushions and refolded the blankets. After he’d broken a mug trying to dust the kitchen, though, they’d decided he needed to be supervised. It was Jisung’s turn now. The other boy was curled up on the opposite armchair, and every two minutes, he looked up from whatever game he was playing on his phone to narrow his eyes at Jeno threateningly.

            He sighed and fidgeted with the television remote. There was nothing good to watch, and even if there was, he suspected he wouldn’t be able to focus. There was no way he could allow himself to focus when just across town, Renjun was—

            “Hey, Jeno,” Jisung started. Jeno blinked over at him, dropping the remote. Jisung rolled his eyes, waited for him to pick it up before continuing, “This is a big house.”

            He narrowed his eyes. “Yeah? It is?”

            Jisung tilted his head. “Where are Renjun’s parents?”

            Jeno frowned. “I told you. He lives alone.”

            “I know he lives alone, doodoo-head,” Jisung said, leaning forward and flicking his forehead. “I’m just asking where they are.”

            He shrugged. With no small amount of bitterness, he replied, “Traveling. Probably. Renjun doesn’t like to talk about them a lot.”

            “I can see why,” he said, fiddling with his phone. “It must get lonely. It’s a big place to stay in all alone.”

            “Good thing he has us to keep him company,” Jaemin interrupted. He placed a bowl of cut fruit on the coffee table and gestured to it before taking a seat on the carpet. “Help yourself.”

            Jeno chewed on a mango cube. “Where is Chenle, anyway? You three are inseparable most of the time.”

            “He’s visiting family on the East Coast,” Jisung replied, nibbling on a strawberry.

            Jaemin raised his eyebrows. “How do _you_ know that?”

            He flushed. “I just. We have a few classes together. Sometimes we talk.”

            Jeno grinned. “Jisung, are you embarrassed? Do you have a cru—”

            Jisung shoved at him. “Like you’re one to talk!”

            A knock came at the door, and they all swiveled to look at in tandem. Under his breath, Jaemin murmured, “Speak of the devil.”

            The door swung open, revealing Mark and a stack of cardboard boxes that nearly brushed the top of the doorway. He poked his head to the side, offering a strained smile. “Little help, guys?”

            Jeno wiped his hands on his jeans and stepped around Jaemin. “How many boxes are there?”

            Mark shifted to the side, and Renjun slipped in between them. He stacked his two boxes against the wall and spoke over his shoulder. “Twelve? Maybe more? Turns out it takes a while to pack up two lives.”

            Jeno held his breath. “How was it?”

            Renjun didn’t turn to look at him, just exhaled slowly. After a moment, he threw a smile over his shoulder. “You two are free. They even agreed to wire some money to you each month through an account I made.”

            Jisung whistled low. “Jesus. What did you even say to them?”

            Renjun put a finger to his lips, grinned. “That’s a secret. Help me unpack the rest of your stuff.”

            Mark tapped Jeno on the shoulder, jerked his head towards the boxes still in the back of the truck. He nodded and followed him out onto the lawn. Hesitantly, he asked, “How was it, though? As far as you could see? Did he need help?”

            Mark snorted. “Are you kidding me? Your parents looked like they were going to piss themselves. Remind me never to piss Renjun off. I’d like to live a long, fulfilling life, thank you very much.”

            Jeno rolled his eyes. “He couldn’t have been that bad.”

            Mark handed him three cardboard boxes, and he grunted from the weight. He shook his head. “Man, you weren’t _there._ I couldn’t even hear what he was saying, and I still got the heebie jeebies. Like a cold breeze or something.”

            Jeno bit back a laugh and the rest of his relief. Mark chattered on about the experience, and the dirty looks he got from random passersby for loitering by the house. He closed his eyes and let himself absorb the sound, let the burden of the past couple of hours drop off his shoulders. It wasn’t done. Nothing about this would be finished, not for a long while. But for the first time in forever, Jeno felt like it was getting better—like it had the potential to.

            “Jeno?” Renjun called from the doorway. Mark had long since gone in, and Jeno could see him picking at the fruit bowl on the coffee table. Renjun leaned against the doorframe, the faint spring breeze tousling his hair. “Are you coming in?”

            He blew out a breath and smiled, and it was real. “Yeah. I’m coming in."

 

...

 

tldr: jisung shows up at the diner, bruised and bleeding from his forehead. after a few moments of reluctance, he admits to jeno that he's been the subject of their parents' physical abuse ever since jeno was kicked out. unsure where to move from there, renjun offers to let them stay at his house until they've figured out what to do. they drive back to renjun's house, and he faces a few questions about where his parents are, which discomfits him. jaemin shows up with food for renjun, and jeno lets him in, donghyuck explaining the situation to him. everyone decides to stay over at renjun's house for the night. jeno and renjun go upstairs to get blankets and jeno breaks down, confessing that he doesn't know where to go from here and that he's afraid. renjun comforts him and vaguely proposes a plan, which he agrees to, and so they go downstairs to explain the plan to the others. the next day, mark drives renjun to jeno's house, and renjun has a strongly worded conversation with his parents, essentially blackmailing them into submission. mark and renjun drive back with the rest of jeno and jisung's stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah this chapter was a doozy. mg8 aka unlearning years of unhealthy thought processes in the span of a month
> 
> i am currently working on / finishing up mg9 so keep an eye out for that too ! can't believe we are finally this close to the end lol. thank u for reading as always
> 
> my twt is @ [miwashuuji](https://twitter.com/miwashuuji) \+ my cc is @ [sarchengsey](https://curiouscat.me/sarchengsey) if u want to contact me !! pls leave a kudos/comment if u enjoyed it !! i would really appreciate it (i read ALL of them)


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